


Against Northern Tides

by Count_Snarcula, Tiofrean



Category: Pirates of the Caribbean (Movies)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Camaraderie, Drama, Dreams, Gen, Humor, Hurt!Jack, Hurt/Comfort, Intrigue, Jack Gets Some Action, Jack being Jack, JusticeForJohnnyDepp, Magic, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Period Realism, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Silly pirates, Smut, There Be Goats, There Be Wenches
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-16 07:49:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28703178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Count_Snarcula/pseuds/Count_Snarcula, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tiofrean/pseuds/Tiofrean
Summary: Faced with a new threat spreading across the Caribbean, Jack Sparrow embarks on a new adventure, aided by his friends. Who can he trust when false accusations and a formidable foe stand in his way? Will he overcome all of the obstacles thrown his way and emerge victorious?
Relationships: Carina Smyth Barbossa/Henry Turner (Background), Elizabeth Swann/Will Turner (background), Jack Sparrow/OFC (One Night Stand), Joshamee Gibbs & Jack Sparrow
Comments: 36
Kudos: 35





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Tiofrean: Hello world!
> 
> Count_Snarcula: Enjoy!

****

**Prologue**

The ocean was rarely still. Storms raging over small islands, spread like stars between the sky, were a normal, everyday occurrence. A relaxed sort of calmness brought by favorable winds and perfect weather was harder to find, but not impossible. Everything in-between, from pouring rain to small, shifty waves, mad like a bunch of water foxes, had an equal chance of happening to any sailor brave enough to sail the Caribbean. Complete stillness, however, the kind that chilled people to the bone with the feeling of incoming doom, was something so rare that finding it could be announced a great achievement. 

Being in the middle of it for the third time on the same day was truly unnerving, and pirates didn’t do unnerved well. 

“Mother of God,” Gibbs mouthed, his voice deserting him, gaping at a wreck of a small cog they were passing off the starboard. The rest of the crew remained quiet, slowly taking off their hats in a silent salute for the unfortunate sailors. 

The wrecked cog had not been shipshape even before misfortune had befallen it. Now though… Now it looked horrifying. The wood at the broadside was bent outwards, planks splintering away under tension, while the bow and the stern were both dropping low, dipping dangerously into water.

But the sorry state of the ship was not what froze everyone’s blood on the spot, no - the most horrible of it all was a giant rock protruding from the deck, looking for all the world like an enormous fang piercing the small vessel in the middle. The whole body of the tiny ship was raised above the water, as the impact of the rock apparently shooting up from the bottom of the ocean had impaled the craft, bursting the hull and rendering it into a truly macabre picture. 

Nervously rubbing his wooden eye before putting it back in the socket, Ragetti joined the rest of the crew in their silent contemplation of the terrible sight.  
“How… how did that ship get there?”  
Pintel scratched his balding head, rusty cogs of his wild imagination already starting to turn.  
“I say, that ship be cursed by a sea witch.”

“A sea witch?” Ragetti felt cold shivers running down his spine, his own mind recalling old legends and tales of sailors’ misfortunes. “I hear there’s a tribe on the coast of the Wildlands which worships the devil, cursing all ships that come near their shores.”

“The Wildlands, ye say?”  
“Aye, the Wildlands tribe. They sacrifice goats to the devil, which in return impales the incoming ships on his hellish horns… like... like that one.” Ragetti pointed to the unfortunate vessel, failing to notice the nervous glances thrown his way by the rest of the crew.  
“Devil goats,” Pintel muttered, nodding to himself in full comprehension.

The two continued exchanging gruesome details of the tribe’s mysterious dealings with the underworld, unaware of the crew’s increasing sense of dread. Soon whispers and murmurs spread like wildfire, each crew member adding a new flavor to the mishmash of tales and speculations, reaching new heights of absurdity only fearful minds could conjure. 

Once the hysteria reached Gibbs’ ears, he decided to put an end to the shenanigans. “Back to work, ye scallywags! There be no witches or hellish horns!” 

Yanked back to reality, the crew scattered back to their posts. 

“D’ya think anyone survived?” Ragetti asked, eyeing a dark shape bobbing in the water right next to the cog. Pintel winced next to him, turning his face towards Gibbs.  
“I don’t think it wise to check it, eh?” He ventured nervously. “Better not step into such a pile of bad luck.”  
“Aye,” Gibbs muttered, eyes still on the wreck, before he turned them to their Captain. 

Jack Sparrow was standing at the quarter deck with his hands on the rails, and an expression of such seriousness that Gibbs felt fear slithering down his back like a sleek eel. Their Captain was a man who would laugh in a funeral house at the most inappropriate moment. Seeing him so stern, so _stricken,_ was more than the old sea dog could handle. 

Approaching him gingerly, Gibbs let out a small cough to announce his presence.  
“What do you make of this, Captain? A powerful storm? A curse of some sorts?” Then, after a moment of hesitation, “devil goats?”  
“The Spear,” Jack replied quietly, his eyes still focused on the wreck.  
“Aye, the spear.” Gibbs nodded in understanding, quickly realizing that, in fact, he could not fathom what Jack was talking about. “A spear, Captain? How this be caused by a spear?”  
“Not _a_ spear, _the_ Spear.” 

Gibbs waited a moment for Jack to elaborate, but when the man offered no further explanation, he decided it was best not to ask. The Pearl's Quartermaster was well aware that to venture into the maze of Jack’s mind was a fool’s errand - what he knew or didn’t know, what had been planned in advance and what was pure serendipity seemed like madness tangled in intentionality. He simply had to trust that Jack knew what he was doing. 

And so, their whole band continued on, silently navigating between numerous wrecks sprinkled sparsely on their way, each of them worse than the previous - some were pierced in the middle with single, fat rocks, others were speared on many thin stone needles, reminding them of porcupines Jack had once told them about. Nobody dared to bring up the quiet dread they were all feeling, but one thing was certain - whatever caused those ships to be skewered on rocks was more powerful than they could ignore.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 1**

If the ocean had been deathly still on their way to Port Royal, the town itself was calmly quiet. The silence surrounding it permeated the numerous houses, from small cottages to bigger mansions. Even the Governor’s estate was peaceful, its serenity broken only by soft footsteps and the susurrus of grass right outside the walls. 

Jack walked slowly, minding his feet and the surroundings, hoping the Governor didn’t keep a dog on the premises - no matter how much he liked overactive puppies and enjoyed watching them waggle their tails hard enough to lose balance, a barking of a pooch would ruin his grand plan. 

He was stealing the Governor’s map. A very important map. And, by god, he was going to be successful. 

Holding his breath, Jack snuck up to a window, peeking inside quickly. The interior of the house was mostly dark, a faraway glow coming somewhere from the other side of it, pouring through numerous open doors and casting a delicate glimmer on the polished, wooden floor. The study looked deserted, though, and Jack smirked to himself. Governor Valjean was no Weatherby Swann, thankfully, and apparently he hadn’t thought much of placing his office on the ground floor, which proved very fortunate, as far as Jack was concerned. A screwdriver, skillfully jammed into the hook locking the window, helped the matters, too, and soon, Jack was able to climb inside, as quiet as a mouse in the cargo hold. 

It took him a while to find the maps - all the obviously conspicuous places that could hold them _didn’t,_ and Jack got frustrated quickly. He plunged his fingers into drawers, ransacked a few cabinets, and explored the depths of two large chests standing innocently at the back of the study. He even combed through a large wardrobe - unsuccessfully coming up with a set of undergarments in a rather alarming shade of red. 

Intrigued, but annoyed nevertheless, Jack threw the underclothing back into the chest and closed the lid. He thought fast - if the maps were not in the obvious places, they must have been hidden in the least evident place… somewhere so unnoticeable that he would miss it completely… somewhere-

He twirled around, turning to the big map hanging on the wall right behind an ornate desk. It was old and well-made, with tiny little islands forming a regular pattern along the coasts. He stepped closer, squinting his eyes in the darkness, trying to make out- _there!_ An edge! 

He couldn’t stop the gleeful grin from stretching his lips when he peeled off the parchment pinned to the upper part of the map. It was of a perfect shade of cream to be completely camouflaged against the background of the larger map, and the penmanship on it was so spot on it looked like a part of the bigger picture. He took it and carefully folded it, before he placed it inside his shirt firmly. It wouldn’t do to have it damaged, Jack told himself, before he paused. 

There were voices somewhere inside the house. _Raised_ voices, seemingly quarreling about something. 

Cautiously, against his better judgement, Jack decided to investigate. He tiptoed out of the office and into a small corridor, narrowly avoiding a cat sprawled on the floorboards like the next King of England. The infernal creature eyed him and yawned, thoroughly unbothered by the prospect of being stomped over, and stretched luxuriously, showing all its claws. Jack cursed silently and moved on, side-stepping the lump of fur and ventured further in, creeping along the walls, keeping his body in the shadows. 

There were two men in another room and they appeared to be arguing about something. Jack snuck up to the entrance, peeking around the corner carefully, eyeing the scene in front of him. There was Valjean, the freshly appointed Governor, and Admiral Bernstein, a man whose eyes had been turned towards the highest position for as long as he had been the resident of Port Royal. Jack didn’t know much about the bloke, but what everyone was talking about in various spitholes around the Caribbean was how Bernstein would one day make himself the Governor. 

Jack didn’t much care for local politics, but his gut was telling him that this was no friendly quarrel. He knew all too well the gleam of sick ambition and envy in the eyes of power-hungry men, and that same gleam was evident in Bernstein’s angry glare. Still, he was on an important mission and a tight schedule, so he was more than happy to leave the scene and get out as soon as possible. 

Quietly turning away from the door, Jack spun around, ready to make his exit, when he almost ran into a small creature - this one less furry, but considerably more unwelcomed than a house cat - a _child._ The small boy with cherubic features was no more than six years old, probably the Governor’s grandson or a maid’s brat. He reminded Jack of a lost goatling separated from his mother. His wide blue eyes were set firmly on the pirate, regarding him with more curiosity than fear. Jack had never been one to inspire dread in the eye of the beholder; with the dangling beads and trinkets in his hair, as well as several strange items attached to his belt, he was often seen as an oddity, and rarely a foe. A big mistake and a lesson learned the hard way by those who had underestimated him, yet a blessing in disguise in situations like that. 

“Shhhhh,” the pirate hissed, putting his index finger to his lips before the boy had a chance to produce noise of any kind.

Sensing that the argument between Governor Valjean and Admiral Bernstein was quickly escalating to more than just thinly veiled threats, Jack begrudgingly decided to make sure the child wouldn’t get caught in the crossfire. Some would deem it a weakness, others would call it being _a good man_ \- either way, that jarring proclivity to do the right thing at the wrong time usually meant trouble for Captain Sparrow. 

Looking around, out of the corner of his eye Jack spotted a wooden laundry chest by the stairs - the perfect hiding spot for the boy.  
“All right, lad, get in there,” he whispered, opening the lid, careful not to make the slightest sound, and shooed the still-confused child inside. “And remember boy, I was never here, savvy?” The youngster nodded frantically, blonde locks falling down his chubby face. “Good.” Jack grinned, flashing a hint of gold from his teeth, and closed the chest. 

He was about to get under way when a booming sound of a gunshot followed by an unmistakable thump of a body hitting the wooden floorboards stopped him dead in his tracks.  
“Bugger.” 

In all his years of pillaging and plundering, if Jack had learned anything, it was that guns and corpses were customarily good cues to flee-

“Leaving so soon, Mr. Sparrow?” An ominous voice asked, accompanied by a clicking sound of a pistol cocking. Jack spun around and smiled nonchalantly, ignoring the fact he was being held at gunpoint by none other than Admiral Bernstein.

 _" Captain_ Sparrow,” Jack corrected, “and I’m terribly sorry, mate, but this obviously isn’t the brothel I was looking for, and you’re not the sort of company I’d like to be entertained by tonight.” Jack’s speech was slightly slurred, but his gestures were distractingly animated and his mind remained sharp, already scanning the room for possible exit routes. 

He noticed an open window behind Bernstein, in the Governor’s office, where its owner’s dead body was lying in a crimson pool of blood. “You killed the Governor!”  
Bernstein chuckled. “No, my friend, _you_ did.”  
“I certainly did _not!”_ Jack replied, a mixture of confusion and indignation evident in his tone.  
“Yes, you did,” Berstain said, raising his pistol to Jack’s eye level. His tone was even and eerily calm for a man who had fresh blood on his hands. “It’s unfortunate that I was too late to stop you from murdering the poor man, but at least I managed to avenge his untimely death by killing the perpetrator, which - in case you’re still confused - would be you.” 

Jack managed to upkeep his unruffled facade, despite a bone-chilling sensation crawling through his body, as he put two and two together.  
“Ah, to revel in the glory of a hero who, no doubt, would humbly accept the Governor’s position for his troubles.”  
“Humbly, of course.”  
“Hell is empty, and all the devils are here, eh? There’s just one problem - I happen to be innocent.”  
Bernstein let out a hearty laugh. “And who’s going to believe you, _pirate?”_  
Jack’s face fell. “Good point”.  
“It’s all for the greater good, really. You see, the late Governor Valjean considered the East India Company’s recent dealings with pirates to be a bit… excessive. I strongly disagreed.” 

Jack's kohl-smudged eyes widened, realization dawning on his face.  
“The Spear. You have it.”  
Bernstein’s arrogant smirk widened, reminding Jack of a hungry wolf about to maul its prey. “And you have something I’d hate to spill your innards all over. Give me the map.”  
“A map? What map?”  
“The one that is blatantly sticking out of your shirt,” Bernstein spat, his patience for the insolent pirate finally running its course. “I’d prefer to avoid the hassle of cleaning it up from your bloody filth.” Pistol held firmly in his right hand, he extended the left one and gestured for Jack to hand over the chart.  
“Aye, it be useless then,” Jack quipped with a cheeky grin, though the seriousness of the situation was not lost on him. He took a cautious step towards Bernstein, slowly pulling out the map. “The thing you’re looking for, mate, ye can’t control it. It’ll control you.”  
“If it helps me rid the Caribbean seas of vermin like you, I’m more than happy to take my chances.” Bernstein snapped, ready to pull the trigger.  
Jack scrunched his nose in disgust. “Who hurt you?” 

With that, he hurled the folded map in Bernstein’s face, poking him in the eye in the process and distracting him enough to knock the pistol out of his hand with a swift kick to the wrist. The chart bounced back and landed straight in Jack’s palm as the pirate quickly pushed past his adversary and bolted towards the window, tucking the parchment behind his shirt again. 

“Guards!” Berenstain yelled while frantically looking for the pistol on the floor, his left eye profusely tearing up, obscuring his vision. “There’s a pirate in the house! He killed the Governor! Guards!”

In his furious state, Bernstein failed to notice the Governor’s cat roaming around and accidentally grabbed its tail - an action met with a ferocious retaliation from the normally impassive feline. An angry hiss and a growl later, Bernstein saw stars when four razor-sharp claws found their way across his face. 

Amidst the chaos, Jack managed to get to the window, swinging his legs over the sill, using one of the curtains as a safety line. The ground was a bit lower at this side of the mansion, so the way down seemed longer than he had initially anticipated. The Pearl was safely moored in a nearby cove and Jack pondered whether he could make it back there with a broken ankle, but his musings were interrupted by a set of fast approaching footsteps. He glanced back quickly, noticing shadows moving somewhere down the corridor, then pushed himself off, using the iron grip he had on the curtain to slow down the fall, only to end up hanging awkwardly outside. 

A few shouts of “There he is!” and “Out through the window!” could be heard, and Jack scrambled for the nearest thing he could grab, feet kicking wildly out and skewing his balance. His fingers encountered a branch of ivy weaving itself right next to the window and he latched onto it, letting go of the curtain just as a shot rang in the air. Ducking low, making sure the map was still safely hidden, Jack started to climb down hurriedly, his feet slipping on the thin branches. One of them came loose, a ripping noise spread around him, and soon, the whole installation of leaves and twigs came crashing down, torn off the wall and collapsing under his weight. 

Jack didn’t really have time to do anything else than inhale sharply before he found himself lying in a heap on the ground, gasping like a shored fish.  
“Bugger,” he muttered, rolling over and crawling out from under the foliage, taking stock of his limbs. His ankle throbbed and his arm was tingling rather badly, but nothing seemed broken and, as far as he was concerned, that was good enough. “This better be worth it,” he grumbled, straightening up and looking around quickly. 

He was, undoubtedly, on the wrong side of the estate - if he wanted to ever get back to the Pearl, he needed to round the house and, judging by the angry shouting somewhere above him, he needed to be rather quick about it. Not keen on waiting for the guards to get him, Jack dashed to his right, running along the stone wall of the mansion, hoping desperately that the Governor's men hadn’t split up and weren’t waiting for him at the end of the narrow, gravely path he found himself following. 

It was really too dark to see anything else but the trail of rocks under his feet, and so he focused on running as fast as he could. There were footsteps behind him, crunching in the gravel and thumping on the strip of grass right next to it, and Jack looked around frantically, noticing a dark shape to his left, a few feet away from the house, much darker than its surroundings. 

_A bush._

Turning sharply, he plunged himself into the plant, ducking low and wincing when a few stray branches scratched at his face. The footsteps got closer, then stopped abruptly, and Jack peeked between the leaves, immediately noticing the ornate coats of the Governor’s guards. 

Four of them stood right where he had disappeared, turning around like lost puppies, trying to spot him somewhere in the darkness. Jack smirked, amused, before his position filtered into his brain - he was essentially trapped inside the bush. Until the men went away, he couldn’t even scratch his arse without them hearing the rustle of the leaves surrounding him. He needed to get rid of them and fast, before one of them got the splendid idea of sticking the end of his rifle blindly between the branches. 

“He went that way!” One of them said, pointing in the direction where Jack had originally intended to run, but another of the coats interrupted him.  
“Impossible! We would have heard him. He’s still somewhere here...” 

And so, they started to walk around, not excessively, not yet close to Jack’s hiding spot, but too close for comfort anyway. It was a completely ill development, but Jack Sparrow didn’t call himself a _Captain_ for nothing. Using the crunch of gravel brought by nervous feet to hide any rustle, he managed to lean a bit lower, placing one hand on the ground. He groped around blindly, frowning in concentration, until his fingers encountered a rock. It was a bit on the small side, but it would have to do. He grabbed it tightly, eyes focused on the men pacing about, and waited for the most opportune moment. 

It came with an order barked by their supposed superior, seemingly done with his men’s inability to produce the pirate.  
“Lawson!”  
“Sir!” A young voice answered the call, and Jack froze. “Take the men and go back, make sure he didn’t slip away on the eastern side!” 

All men turned like one, and Jack used the moment to throw the rock further down the trail he had originally taken. It bounced off the wall and skittered along, making enough racket to draw their attention. One of them roared “There he is!”, the rest of them following suit with some unintelligible shouting, and Jack grinned when they started down the path again, quickly turning the corner and disappearing out of sight. He waited a few seconds longer but, when none of them returned, he stumbled out of the bush and retraced his steps, this time keeping to the strip of grass so as not to make too much noise. 

It was inevitable that such a smooth escape would finally come to an abrupt halt and, in Jack’s case, it turned out to be quite literal - he froze when, upon passing the window he had used to get away, he heard more footsteps ahead of him. Cursing silently, knowing well that guards were now not only behind him, but also _in front_ of him, he dashed to the side, making his way blindly through a small garden stretching from the house all the way to a rather tall cliff. 

Under any normal circumstances, he would have paused and admired the view, letting his gaze get lost in the faraway horizon. Those, however, were no normal circumstances, and Jack did not really have time for any sightseeing. Pausing at the edge of the cliff, peering down, he debated whether the fall would break his back, or if the rocks at the bottom would crack his skull open. Ideally, he would like to walk the line of the coast until he found a perfect place to climb down, even if he had to swim all the way back to the Pearl. If the guards hadn’t been that close-

He threw a glance over his shoulder, noticing movement at the edge of the garden. _No,_ he thought, _there was no time for midnight walks._ The Governor’s men were closing in on him and, no matter how good he was at sneaking around, it was rather unavoidable that he would be caught - the garden was simply too small to play hide and seek. What was worse, someone had turned on the lights on the first floor of the mansion, and Jack looked up annoyed, squinting in the soft glow stretching all the way to him. 

His irritation turned to surprise quickly, however, when he spotted a darker shape moving along the window, the halo of the golden curls unmistakable even from the distance separating them. The infernal kid had apparently crawled out of the chest and was thirsty for a show. Angry, well aware that any additional light put him into a very vulnerable position, Jack started to gesticulate wildly, hands flying around him, for the brat to put the light out. The blasted child didn’t seem to understand a whit and just stood there, face plastered to the window, looking for all the world like one of the algae eaters he had once seen. 

“Stop! Stop right there!” The shout came from behind him, and so, Jack turned quickly to the cliff, deciding that the time for thinking was over. He would have to jump and trust his lucky stars to keep him away from the rocks. Just as he was about to take the final step, a shot rang through the air. A sharp tug to his shoulder, followed by searing hot pain that tore through his chest knocked him off balance, and he staggered forward. 

As he tumbled down the cliff, a few more shots sounded above him, echoing in the night. He was almost sure he heard shouting before the ocean closed over his head.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 2

Gibbs was sitting at the steps leading to the quarter deck, his gaze nervously jumping over the coastline. Jack had told him to _mind the ship_ and _mind his hat,_ while he had swam ashore to pilfer a map from the Governor. Gibbs didn’t necessarily like the idea of his Captain going it alone, but there was no swaying Jack usually, and when he got into muttering about dreams and seas and _gods…_ Aye, Gibbs had thought it better to just take the hat and sit down, waiting. 

The Pearl was anchored in a small cove, just to the side of where Jack had gone to - the Governor’s mansion could be clearly seen at the top of a rather high cliff, sitting there sprawled like a dark jellyfish thrown on the beach. The whole house was dark, except for one dimly illuminated room, and Gibbs eyed it warily, his hand traveling to the hat lying next to him. He straightened it out, nudged it a bit to the side and gave it a little pat, making sure it would be in top shape for Jack’s return. 

“Any news?” Ragetti asked from behind him, polishing his wooden eye with the corner of his shirt. Gibbs shook his head.   
“Nay, ‘s all quiet up there. And whatever Jack’s up to, it better stay that way.”

“Strom!” A young voice cried, and he looked up to the crow’s nest, seeing their newest addition to the crew, a sixteen-year-old boy by the name of Harper, point at the faraway horizon. Gibbs squinted in the darkness, noticing a few small flashes right at the line separating the ocean from the sky. 

Harper might have sharp eyes, but he was entirely too jerky still. Gibbs wasn’t surprised - they had dragged him out of one of the spitholes in Santa Catalina; a dirty youngster with scared eyes and twitching hands. Jack’s heart had melted on the spot when he had seen the brat, and Gibbs had known the answer before the kid had even asked their Captain whether he could join them. Jack did have a penchant for collecting poor buggers in need of saving, after all. It was clear that the boy had been mistreated, though, and so Gibbs hadn’t protested all that much. Once aboard the Pearl, the kid proved rather useful, hoisting sails with the rest of them, scrubbing the deck like there was no tomorrow and, surprisingly, not dozing off during his crow’s nest shift. 

“Keep an eye on it lad, lemme know when it gets closer,” Gibbs shouted back at him and turned to the coast again, his hand falling to the hat once more. It was still where it had been a few moments earlier, lying innocently on the step, and he gave it a small poke and a quick pat. Jack would be back soon. 

Or _sooner._

Out of the blue, a few shots sounded high up on the cliff, startling Gibbs. Standing up and almost running to the rail, he leaned over it as if that would help him see better. Another series of gunshots and some shouting, barely distinguishable over the gentle noise of the waves lapping at the Pearl’s hull. Concentrating hard, barely aware of Ragetti joining him at the rail, Gibbs squinted, making out a single dark spot moving rapidly through what appeared to be an assortment of small bushes. The flaunting waver of the run was unmistakable, but Gibbs couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge the truth. The man stopped at the edge of the cliff, then swayed dangerously, before he fell down, crashing into the water like a rock. 

With a sinking feeling deep in his stomach, Gibbs turned to Ragetti, grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him closer.   
“Wake ‘em up! All hands on deck!” He shouted, turning the man around and giving him a swift push in the direction of the flight of stairs leading to the lower deck. “All hands _now,_ or your mommas won’t recognize any of ya!” 

He turned to the quarter deck, intent on untying the rope keeping the wheel in place, when he saw Jack’s hat still resting on the step. Gingerly, Gibbs picked it up and took it with him, then made his way to the helm.

-&-

Up on the cliff, the guards collected right next to the sharp edge of it, a couple of guards stood silently, looking curiously into the water down below. They had seen the pirate fall and hit the water, they had even seen him go underneath it, seemingly lifeless. 

“Get moving, you lazy bastards!” Bernstein emerged from the house, barking orders as he went. The commander of the Guard snapped to attention, saluting the Admiral.   
“Sir! The pirate is dead, sir!” He pronounced, glancing at his men with satisfaction once he noticed them all standing tall, forming a neat line. Bernstein was a powerful man and he would soon be the Governor, probably, since Valjean had been killed. It would be wise to be on the man’s good side.

 _The king is dead, long live the king!_

Bernstein, however, didn’t look even a bit pleased.   
“You fools!” He sneered, peeking over the edge of the cliff, then turned sharply to address the commander. “How can you be sure that the pirate scum is dead? Is there a body there?”   
“No sir, but-”   
“But _nothing!”_ Bernstein growled, eyes sparkling. “Stop trying to be smart and do your damn job! That there,” he said, pointing to the ocean at the bottom of the cliff, “was Jack Sparrow. Bring him to me, or you’ll be sweeping the gallows for the rest of your career. Understood?”   
“Yes sir!” The soldier saluted, then stood there, hesitating. 

“What on earth and the seven seas are you waiting for?”   
“Do we… are we looking for a body, sir?”   
“Yes, you idiot!” Bernstein huffed in irritation. “Send people to comb the coastline for him… although…” He turned back to the sea, frowning. “Get the word out that Sparrow is a wanted man. Put a bounty on his head. Let people know that I don’t care a whit if he’s dead or alive, as long as someone delivers him to me with all his possessions.”   
“Yes sir!” The commander answered, then turned to give orders to the guards. Bernstein huffed again, then stormed back to the house.   
“Filthy pirates!” 

-&-

On the other side of Port Royal, in a house smaller than the Governor’s estate but just as comfortable, a former pirate was having a rather peculiar dream. 

William Turner was not a man easily scared, a fact proven by the many adventures he had lived through some years before, all of which resulted in him becoming the biggest fear of all sea-dwellers - the Captain of the Flying Dutchman. But those had been old times, almost completely forgotten now, covered in thick layers of dust, and there was no reason for him to keep having those stupidly vivid dreams that made him wake up drenched in cold sweat, tangled in his own sheets and screaming himself hoarse. 

Another night, another dream, and once again, Will was turning and tossing in his bed, fitfully trying to escape the clutches of madness that had somehow possessed him. 

Something was different this time, however, the usual gloominess of the pictures flickering through his mind broken by sudden flashes and hard light, bright enough to blind him temporarily. He was in his bedroom, and Elizabeth was lying close to him, dead to the world. Her face was so calm, so _peaceful_ it almost seemed unnatural, and Will didn’t have the nerve to reach around and check whether she was really breathing. Such an act would require someone far braver than him.

Something moved in the half-darkness around him, a long shadow fell on the bed, and Will gasped when he recognized the crab claw he had once feared - a sight like this was nightmarish enough to warrant frequent repetitions in the future for any unfortunate fool that had stumbled upon it. Jerking his head up, he looked ahead, squinting in the too harsh light, frowning when, instead of the well-known silhouette of Davy Jones, he saw a much smaller shape, with decidedly feminine curves and a mop of dark hair. 

“Calypso…” Will whispered, his voice suddenly uncooperating. The goddess smiled at him toothily, and Will shivered, a strange sensation of dread slithering down his spine like a slippery snake. 

“How ye be farin’, William Turner?” She drawled, coming closer, moving like the sea she was. Bringing one arm between them, palm-up, she muttered something in a strange, guttural language, and Will watched in horrified fascination as water appeared on her hand, forming a small pool seemingly suspended in thin air. He frowned, but Calypso nodded her head at him, her gaze falling to what was happening in the cradle of her fingers, and soon, a ship materialized in the puddle of magical water - a ship Will recognized instantly. 

_The Black Pearl._

“Do ye not ‘ave a duty still, young William? Why ye loungin’ in yer bed when t’ Dutchman awaits ye?” She asked, her face becoming serious, the smile falling away. She looked angry suddenly, furious like the ocean, and Will found himself swallowing nervously, trying to find the words.   
“I am not a Captain anymore. My duty is done.”   
“Yer _duty_ shall not be done until ya remember properly wha’ it is.”   
“My duty is _done,”_ he repeated stubbornly. “The curse was broken.”   
“Ah, I know about t’ curse, young William. Yer son is a very brave man,” she grinned, showing discoloured teeth.   
“Henry…” 

Will squished the urge to jump out of bed and go look for his son. Henry was probably asleep at home, next door, cuddled up to Carina and resting after a hard day’s work… he had to be. Will felt his voice tremble, fear gripping his heart.  
“You stay away from him!”   
“Why?” Calypso leered, leaning forward, hair obscuring half of her face. “He’s got twice t’ courage ye ‘ave and could easily stand in yer place…”   
“No!” He shouted, mortified. Calypso’s features became grave again, radiating such coldness Will could swear he saw his breath misting over.   
“Then do yer duty, _Captain._ Or I shall take yer son in yer stead.” 

Hearing that, Will’s stomach gave a lurch, his head swimming. Henry was a young man, but far too inexperienced to have any dealings with the goddess. Will hadn’t spent enough time with him yet - he hadn’t been there for the first twenty years of his son’s life, after all - so the very thought of Calypso taking him away and shackling him to the Dutchman was unbearable.

She turned to leave, a curious scratching sound surrounding her, and Will noticed with a jolt of shock that there were tiny crabs crawling all over the floor, following her like an overlong, wriggling dress. Will winced, but his heart stuttered when he realized he didn’t know what she expected of him. He was no longer the ferryman... _was he?_ And why did she show him the Black Pearl?   
“Wait!” He cried, and Calypso paused. “What _is_ it that you want me to do?” 

In response, she glanced at him over her shoulder, her eyes glowing, and suddenly Will found himself underwater. Cold ocean was all around him, dark and unforgiving, pulling him down, down, _down-_

“Will!” 

He gasped, bolting upright in his bed, Elizabeth’s hand shaking him awake. He was in his bedroom - decidedly crab-free - with a candle burning on the nightstand and his wife half-kneeling above him, worry etched all over her face. 

“Just a dream,” he mumbled, rubbing his hands over his face. His shirt was drenched in sweat and he shuddered from the cold. Elizabeth’s hand soothed up his arm and brushed softly through his hair, untangling the mess carefully.   
“You were screaming.” She said, her voice low. “Another bad one?”   
“It was…” Will hesitated, then sighed, shaking his head. “Weird. It was weird.” Helplessly, he looked around, noticing that it was still dark outside their window. “What time is it?”   
“Too early. Go back to sleep.” She murmured, laying back down and pulling on him, until Will let himself be tucked back under the blankets and wrapped in her arms. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered after a while, but she shushed him gently.   
“Nonsense. You can’t control your dreams.” She stated with all the certainty he didn’t feel. “It’s going to be fine in the morning. I’ll go to the town and get something good for breakfast. And then we can go to your workshop and you’ll show me that set of candle holders you’ve been working on…” She went on, murmuring the words quietly, lulling him back to sleep. To Will’s surprise, he found himself drifting off, his eyes closing slowly, fear leaving him.

-&-

They say a drowning man’s last wish is to be wrapped in a comfortable blanket of oblivion, sparing him the pain of icy water filling his lungs, tearing them up from the inside and violently robbing him of his last breath. In his misfortune, Jack at least got that wish, as his unconscious body was slowly but steadily pulled down by the weight of his garments and his effects into the abyssal depths of the ocean. The gradual descend would seem oddly serene but for the ominous red streak of blood flowing out of his wounded shoulder. 

Was that the end of the infamous Captain Jack Sparrow - the man who faced the Kraken’s jaws and lived to tell the tale? The legendary pirate who double-crossed Black Beard, survived the wrath of Captain Salazar, and escaped a deserted island by roping two sea turtles with the hair from his own back!? 

Nay, Calypso had other plans, sending help in the form of two sea creatures said to be as deadly as they were beautiful, known to enthrall unfortunate sailors with their glamor just to viciously devour their flesh in the end. 

_Mermaids._

Fortunately for good ol’ Jack, the two sisters of the sea were not hunting for a late-night meal, but instead, one wrapped her fingers around the pirate’s belt, the other slid her arm across his back, and with a speed of a sailfish, they pulled him towards the Black Pearl. 

Meanwhile, Jack’s crew was just about to set sail, ready to rescue their Captain, even if it meant combing the sea all night long while fending off the Royal Navy, when a loud, high-pitched scream pierced their ears.   
“Sea ghouls!!! Run for yer lives! Mermaids!!!” 

It was Scrum who sounded the alarm after he’d spotted a stunning blonde woman emerging from the water, meeting his dumbfounded gaze with a pair of hypnotic blue eyes, the golden scales of her fish-like tail glistering in the moonlight. The events of Whitecap Bay flashed in Scrum’s mind, causing him to yell his lungs out, panic overtaking all reason. 

All the men rushed to the rails, eyes darting back and forth in search of the vicious foe.   
“There, I sees one!”   
“Shiver me timbers!”   
“Prepare to broadside!” Gibbs shouted, dragging their attention back to himself. Every able hand onboard jumped into action, rolling the cannons out and loading them, waiting for his signal to open fire . Pintel and Ragetti promptly took out their swords, standing back to back, their hearts racing, knees rattling with fear.   
“Them says mermaids’ favourite dish be... a gentleman's family jewels.” Ragetti remarked meekly, earning a sideways glare from his comrade.   
“There be no _gentlemen_ here, luckily.” 

Against his better judgement, but staying true to his curious nature, young Harper approached the rail to inspect what had whipped the crew into such a frenzy. When he saw the exquisite creature, he felt a wave of heat racing to his cheeks, turning them bright red.   
“W-what’s your name?” The boy asked shyly, unable to take his eyes off her.   
“Mariposa,” she responded with a coy smile. The youngster leaned over the rail, his eyes subconsciously falling on the long strands of hair covering the mermaid’s bosom.   
“Do you need hel-”

Before the lad could finish, Scrum rapidly grabbed him by the collar and dragged him to the opposite side of the main deck, ranting and raving like a madman all the way there.   
“Don’t talk to ‘er, ye fool! ‘Em mermaids look innocent enough, but that’s how ‘em get ye!”   
“Did you lose this?” A soft voice came from below, then chuckled when Scrum let out a screech of surprise and turned around so abruptly that he lost balance, landing hard on his arse.   
“Another one!”

Ignoring the other pirate’s earlier warnings, Harper glanced over the rails and caught sight of a dark-haired mermaid who greeted him with a flirtatious wink. Just then, his eyes were drawn to an unconscious man held in her firm embrace, his limp body pressed closely to hers, his head propped up against her shoulder just above the water. The man’s face was hidden behind a thick bundle of dreadlocks and beads, but there was no mistaking who it was.  
“She’s got the Captain!”

Gibbs dashed over to the boy faster than a lightning bolt.  
“Mary, mother of God!” 

At that point, the mermaid’s intentions were unclear, so Gibbs approached the rails gingerly, eying the sea creature with uncertainty, like a scared cat unsure whether to purr or show its claws.   
“I believe this is yours,” the mermaid said sweetly, nodding to Jack’s limp head bobbing above the water, then swam up closer to the side of the ship, letting Gibbs know she meant to do no harm. 

The old seadog proceeded to order his men to throw a rope overboard while he and Harper climbed down the Jacob’s ladder. After they fastened the rope around Jack’s waist, three other men pulled it up vigorously, hauling Jack’s motionless body onboard. Gibbs felt a hot rush of blood floating through his veins, overwhelmed by worry for his Captain’s wellbeing, and the determination to save him. He was about to thank the mermaid for her efforts when Mariposa’s head suddenly bobbed up to the surface, causing him to jerk backwards in surprise and almost lose his grip on the ropes. She giggled innocently, handing Harper Jack’s effects and the blasted map that, as far as Gibbs was concerned, had started the whole mess in the first place. 

The golden-haired mermaid motioned for Gibbs to lean in closer, which he warily did, intrigued but not fully trusting the sea wench. She was so close that he could feel her warm breath fanning over his cheek, while the scent of salt and seaweed emanating from her ivory skin tickled his nose.   
“Would you be so kind and relay a message to Captain Sparrow when he feels better?”   
Gibbs didn’t so much as even nod when a sudden slap made his head spin, the message received loud and clear. And just like that, with a swift flick of their tails, the two mermaids were gone, fading in the boundless depths of the briny waters. 

Climbing back onboard, Gibbs looked around the deck, trying to spot Jack, but all he could see was the assembled band of his crewmates, gathered in a tight group right next to the capstan, packed together like a company of unfortunate pickles in a too-small jar. After pushing his way forcefully through the strangely unmoving crowd, Gibbs paused, worry eating at him. 

There was Jack, unmoving and unconscious, lying on his back on the deck, face pale even in the half-darkness around them, wet hair spilling from under his bandana. Gibbs crouched over him, taking in the well-known features of his friend, now ashen and completely lifeless. A splash could be heard somewhere off the starboard, and Gibbs remembered the mermaids. He drew his hand back quickly and slapped Jack across his left cheek, hard enough to make his head turn.  
“Come on Jack, ye scabby sea bass, wake up!” 

When nothing happened, he tried once more, desperate to make the man regain consciousness. Jack had gotten out of worse and far more tangled predicaments than jumping from a cliff. This couldn’t be what had beaten him in the end... 

When he drew his hand back again, he was stopped by Ragetti’s quiet voice.   
“He’s not breathing,” the pirate stated, quite unnecessarily, it seemed, for Gibbs was sure that all had already noticed the utter lack of _any_ movement from their Captain. Helplessly, he raised his head, looking from one scared face to another, all of them clueless and lost. He felt a pang somewhere deep in his chest, but before he had the opportunity to even _think_ of what he should say, their resident monkey appeared, screeching in that irritating way it was prone to. The animal shot from between their legs, jumping on Jack’s chest, making a lot of noise. Gibbs was ready to shoo it away - or, preferably, grab it and throw it overboard - when the infernal creature started to jump up and down as if possessed by a mountain goat’s evil spirit, making Jack’s whole body jolt where it lay on the deck. 

Gibbs saw red and, with a roar none of them had ever heard coming from him, launched himself at the monkey, catching it mid-jump and standing quickly, eyes on the taffrail of the ship. Before he could take even one step forward, the animal screeched, the men shouted, and Gibbs turned back to Jack’s body, which started twitching and spasming. In shock, Gibbs lost his grip on the monkey, and it fell down, scurrying away with an indignant squeak. Nobody paid it any mind, however, all of them too focused on Gibbs bending over Jack again, rolling him to the side and thumping a large fist against his back, helping him cough out the water lodged in his lungs. 

After the fit passed, they laid him out flat again, watching his face carefully, but their Captain’s eyes remained closed and his body motionless, save for the shaky rise and fall of his chest.   
“He’s not wakin’ up,” Marty noted aloud, voicing their thoughts. Gibbs nodded.   
“Aye. Somethin’s wrong.”   
“He must be cold,” Ragetti added hesitatingly, nodding his head at the puddle Jack was lying in.   
“Let’s get him to his cabin and take that wet coat off!” Gibbs ordered, and the rest nodded, but nobody moved. “Now!” He barked for good measure, which finally seemed to prompt them into action. “Scrum! Collect Jack’s effects and bring them in. Mr. Cole, take t’ helm!”

Gibbs and Pintel took hold of Jack’s arms, while Harper grabbed his legs and, gently, they lifted him from the deck. The first tug up tore a weak groan from Jack’s throat, but other than that, he remained fairly out of it, sagging bonelessly in their grasp. Marty joined them after a moment, holding the Captain’s head and stopping it from lolling back and forth, while Ragetti opened the doors to Jack’s cabin. 

They put him on the cot, much more spacious than their own hammocks, and peeled off the soaking wet coat, carefully rolling him this way and that, until they could pull it off completely. A dark stain on the shirt, spreading further with every second, made them all freeze. It was located right at Jack’s shoulder, under his left collarbone, and with every passing second it seemed to become more and more crimson. Gibbs hesitated, then reached out to unlace the shirt and tug it to the side, revealing a large, circular wound, blood oozing out of it in a small trickle. 

Gritting his teeth, he turned Jack to his side, revealing another hole, dead-center on his shoulder blade, smaller and almost perfectly round. This one wasn’t bleeding as much, and he decided to leave it be for now, focusing on the exit wound at the front, desperate to remember what should be done in such a case. 

Their lot didn’t usually have a lot of chances to live after being shot, seeing as it mostly resulted in people plunging into the ocean and drowning, or being run through with something pointy and sharp. If they were lucky, pirates could find themselves on the business end of a pistol quickly again - this time with a muzzle aimed at their head, ready to end their misery. Patching up wounds like that was not a part of the pirate curriculum, and it came as no surprise when the crew just stood in a circle around the cot, their arms hanging uselessly at their sides, despairing eyes boring into their Captain. 

Jack was well liked by everyone on the Pearl, and so there was no shortage of volunteers when Gibbs ordered them to find him some rum, a command easily followed in Jack’s cabin - followed, that was, to the nearest table, under which a crate of neatly corked bottles resided. Another order came, this time to take off Jack’s shirt - _Careful, or t’ mermaids will ‘ave a dinner t’night, after all! -_ and soon, they were all back to standing in a circle, staring unblinkingly as Gibbs poured rum over the wound, hoping to prevent any festering that was, quite honestly, the worst case scenario. 

He knew well what happened with wounds bathed in sea water, as he recalled that one unfortunate idiot he had sailed with while still being a proper gentleman in His Majesty’s Navy. On their way from England, the Dauntless’ crew had had a rather fierce meeting with the Spaniards, resulting in one of their sailors earning himself a nasty cut right beneath his knee. The poor bugger hadn’t known any better, green behind his ears as he had been, and had religiously washed the wound twice a day in a barrel of the ocean’s _aqua pura._ Before anyone had been able to set him right, the wound had festered so badly they had been forced to cut the entire leg off. It had been the first and only time Gibbs had seen Norrington, barely a Captain back then, drunk off his poncy arse. 

The idea of pouring alcohol over wounds wasn’t a new invention, as it was common to bathe any major cut or other injury in their precious golden swill. It worked usually, if not to stave off rot, then at least to rouse the comatose patient. Jack, however, remained unmoved, breathing shallowly, an occasional twitch of his eyebrows and a few clenching fingers the only indication that he was still alive. 

“A’right,” Marty said, scratching his bald head, then moving his hand to scratch the single braid of a beard hanging under his chin, before he let his arm fall along his body. Gibbs was almost certain the next scratch would be on his arse, but the man refrained, frowning at Jack, conveniently placed at his eye-level. “Whadda we do now?”   
“More rum?” Scrum suggested, walking in and placing all of Jack’s items on the desk in the corner of the cabin.   
“We should burn the wound,” Pintel jumped in, “‘t would stop the bleeding.”

Logically, Gibbs knew the man was probably right, but causing their Captain even more pain and having him screaming himself to wakefulness didn’t sit right with him. He shook his head slowly, gaze still focused on Jack’s unconscious face. Behind him, the ideas started to run wild.   
“Maybe we should go to tha’ island of San Jose?'' Ragetti proposed quietly. “I hear there’s a tribe there tha’ makes medicine from toads’ eyeballs.”   
“Or maybe we should-”   
“Enough!” Gibbs snapped, startling them into silence. “We’re _not_ sailing through half of t’ Caribbean for a frog’s shite tha’ ain’t gonna work!”   
“But what _do_ we do?” Marty asked again, his fingers straying back and scratching his arse quickly. 

A screech sounded inside the cabin, and the monkey was back, jumping on the cot and settling above Jack’s head on the pillow, holding something out for them to take. Gibbs eyed it carefully, realizing that the bundle of cloth the animal was handing over was actually a strip of clean linen.  
“A bandage!” He cried, reaching out to take it, hearing a collective sharp inhale from the crew. They all feared that monkey, and with good reason - it only listened to the current Captain of the ship, and it seemed to keep its wits about it more than their whole crew combined.

The fact that it didn’t try to bite Gibbs’ fingers off was a testament to just how bad Jack’s state was. 

They wrapped the wound quickly, then pulled a blanket high over Jack’s chest, feeling just how cold his body had become. That done, they pulled away and went back to staring helplessly, before Gibbs decided that it was quite enough of idleness.   
“Bring me Jack’s compass!” He ordered, and Scrum started to dig through the pile of Jack’s belongings, finding it and handing it over. 

Gibbs opened the compass, silently praying to whatever god was available it would point him in the right direction - _any direction_ would do in fact. He knew Jack’s compass was no ordinary navigational instrument, as it always led the owner to the one thing his heart most desired - and the only thing Gibbs desired then and there was to help his Captain before he bled out to death. Staring intently at the disk, he waited for the needle to stop spinning around, and when it finally did, pointing to the mainland, Gibbs’ head snapped up as he had an epiphany.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 3

Rushing through a verdant meadow like a wild mountain goat, Elizabeth didn’t hear the snapping twigs beneath her slippers, or the swishing tall grass she briskly swatted aside, as the only sound her ears could register was the the loud thumping of her racing heartbeat. It was still early before noon, judging by the sun’s position in the cloudless sky, but Elizabeth wanted to get back home as soon as possible, having learned some terrible news she had to share with her husband. 

She had been in town, merrily doing some errands, when she’d overheard two merchants talking about the murder of Governor Vernon Valjean. As if that information hadn’t been distressing enough, the name of the alleged perpetrator had shaken Elizabeth to the core. 

_Jack Sparrow._

Without a second thought, she had run over to the men, asking them a thousand questions - the whos, the whens, the whys - which they had gladly answered, probably believing her to be a bored housewife, thirsty for some excitement to enliven her dull day. They’d even gone as far as to show her a wanted-flyer with Jack’s likeness sketched on it, which included a detailed account of the Governor’s assasination. Dropping her groceries, Elizabeth had seized the leaflet and bolted down the path back home. 

Mrs. Turner was usually fond of the remote location of her family’s small cottage, but the long run was taking its toll on her, and she swore under her breath at the long distance she still had to cover. She briefly considered refraining from relaying the story to Will, afraid that distressing her nightmare-ridden husband even more wouldn’t do him any good, but in the end, she concluded he would eventually catch wind of the news one way or the other. The murder of the highest-ranking official in town was already on everyone’s lips. 

Then she thought about Jack. Trouble seemed to be his most faithful companion, following him everywhere he went, but killing someone in cold blood was a new color on him. _Why would he do such a thing?_ Elizabrth felt sick to her stomach just thinking about it. A long time ago, her beloved father had been the Governor of Port Royal, murdered mercilessly by Cutler Beckett, so Jack’s involvement in such a heinous crime was breaking her heart into a million pieces. 

When her long and arduous sprint home finally came to an end, Elizabeth burst through the door, startling Will awake from his precious slumber. Blinking the last wisps of sleep away, he lazily turned his gaze towards his wife, then jolted up from his bed as he fully took in the sight of her. Elizabeth was a mess with leaves and twigs sticking out from her sweat-coated hair, cheeks flushed deeply, eyes as wide as two Doubloons. Panting heavily, she leaned against the table, her shaky legs ready to give out at any moment. 

“Elizabeth! What happened? Was someone chasing you? Are you alright?” Will circled his wife, scanning her body for possible wounds, worry etched onto his face. Still fighting for every breath, Elizabeth found herself unable to utter a single word, so she resorted to simply handing Will the crumpled flyer she had stolen from the merchants.

Will’s brows furrowed as he read the note, confusion quickly turning into outrage.  
“Jack killed the Governor?!”  
His wife nodded her head vigorously, a faint wheeze escaping her lips as she tried to calm down her breathing.  
“No, that can’t be! Jack wouldn’t do that… would he? I mean, he is a _pirate_ , but… he’s also a _good man_ … most of the time...”  
Will started pacing around the room nervously, and Elizabeth could only sit down and watch in silent awe as her husband became more and more agitated in his heated argument… _with himself,_ switching back and forth between playing the prosecutor and the devil’s advocate.

“Is he selfish? Sometimes. Drunk - always, crazy - at times, but a _murderer_ ? If he drank too much rum, and wasn’t fully aware of his actions, would that excuse the deed? Absolutely not! Maybe he had a good reason? Aye, Jack would never take a life unjustly. But, shooting a man in the middle of the night in his own home is unforgivable, no matter what the circumstances were. Or maybe-”

Will’s eyes sparkled with an idea. “Maybe he _didn’t do it!”_ He turned to Elizabeth, his desperate gaze practically begging her to agree with him. "Maybe it’s all a big misunderstanding?”  
“People say there’s a witness,” she replied quietly, unsure of her own stance on the matter. “Admiral Bernstein saw Jack killing the Governor and escaping through the window.”

Shoulders slumping in defeat, Will let out a long sigh. “So, what are we going to do?”  
Elizabeth approached him and put a tentative hand on his shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. “There’s nothing we can do, my love.”  
“I should set sail on the Dutchman, find the Black Pearl and-”  
“No!” The ardent protest echoed through the room, startling Will somewhat. “There is _no_ Dutchman!”  
“But-”  
“You gave twenty years of your life to that damn ship!” Elizabeth hissed, tears building up in her eyes, decades of suppressed anguish and rage finally coming to the surface. “Twenty years, Will! And I watch you suffer _every night_ because of it! I hate it! I hate that you had to go through this! I hate that Henry grew up without his father because of this! I’m sick of hearing about _the Flying Dutchman,_ and I’m sick of _pirates_ !” 

Before Will had a chance to respond, a sudden bang made the two jump - it was Gibbs, swinging their door open and barging inside with the grace of a raging bull, urgency spread across his features.

“Pardon t’ intrusion, but we need ye help!”  


-&-

At the other side of Port Royal, in a fort that should by now be bustling with soldiers, Admiral Bernstein stood near the tall window in his office, breeze ruffling the white hair of his neatly combed wig. His face was not turned to the serene town just outside the walls of his fortress, however, but to the object he was holding, his gaze taking in the tiniest of details while his hand brushed tenderly up and down, stroking the surface with fascinated care. 

The spear was long, thick enough to look intimidating, but not enough to impair the wielder. There was a pattern on it, not unlike the oak of his own desk, but it was cool to the touch and infinitely harder. Only a keen eye could recognize it for what it was - petrified wood. 

Bernstein smiled, his gaze sliding upwards to the tip of the weapon. It was adorned with many small crystals, shimmering like a trembling image of stars reflected in the surface of water. Along the side of the pointed head, an edge could be seen, sharp as a broken shell, glinting blue in the sunlight. Just underneath the tip, a crown-like ornament sat, barbed and dangerous, sticking out menacingly in a clear warning to anyone who might have the ridiculous idea of grabbing it. From there, stretching all the way down the shaft, a long line of pagan runes was engraved, filled with black paint and standing stark against the wood-like background. The far end of it was adorned with an ornament similar to a ship with a dragon’s head at its bow, the stern of it forming a neat tail. 

“Admiral, sir!” A voice sounded behind him, and Bernstein sighed, his gaze never leaving the spear.  
“What is it?”  
“We’ve finished the search by the cliff. There was no body in the water, sir.” The soldier rattled out, a click of his heels signaling the moment he pulled himself at attention. Bernstein frowned, finally dragging his eyes from the spear and to the window, looking through the glass at the fort. It should be busy and full now, but it wasn’t - all men were combing the coastline for a certain pirate’s body. He had already received reports from various groups stating the absolute lack of one Jack Sparrow anywhere in sight. 

“That bloody vagrant is still alive!” He growled, his hands gripping the spear tighter. The weapon sung in his grasp, humming in a strange way, not unlike a muffled bell, silent but vibrating. “Find him!” He snapped, twirling around, leveling the soldier with an icy stare. “Or better yet, find his blasted ship and _sink it!”_ _  
_“S-sir, the Black Pear is said to be the fastest vessel in the Caribbean.”  
“Just find it, Lieutenant.” Bernstein grinned darkly, dragging his eyes back to the spear. “Let me handle the rest.”  
  


-&-

Seeing Gibbs on their doorstep, asking for help, stunned the Turners into silence. The old sea dog was breathing heavily, droplets of sweat glistening across his sun-burnt features, but he provided no further explanation. He didn’t have to, as four other pirates appeared behind him, carrying a motionless Jack on a tattered black sail like some priceless relic. Ragetti, Pintel, Scrum and little Marty didn’t even bother waiting for an invitation, unceremoniously entering the house and carefully laying Jack on the nearest horizontal surface, which happened to be the Turners’ breakfast table.

Snapping out of their bewilderment, the Turners jumped into action as Will rushed to Jack’s side while Elizabeth’s instincts kicked in, telling her to shut the door before someone saw a bunch of pirates occupying their little cottage. Even though the house was located on the outskirts of the island, and the only neighboring dwelling belonged to Henry and Carina, it was still prudent to avoid drawing attention in case a random passer-by decided to take a stroll around their neck of the woods. 

Pushing the door closed, Elizabeth slowly turned around to face Gibbs, eyeing him intently, jaw firmly set, wordlessly demanding and explanation.  
Clearing his throat awkwardly, Gibbs searched for the right words, pondering how much information he was willing to disclose.  
“Again, forgive us for burstin’ in like a passel of wild hogs, but as ye can see, this be a matter of life and death.” He pointed to Jack’s still form, hoping the sight of their wounded Captain was self-explanatory enough.

Will looked Jack over, taken aback by how pale his usually sun-kissed skin was, then he noticed blood slowly seeping through the bandages.  
“What happened?”

The pirates stood there fumblingly, exchanging side-glances as if to pressure one another to start talking, until eventually all eyes fell on Gibbs. The Quartermaster hesitated, fingers tucking into his pocket, where Jack’s map resided, before he forced his hand away, thinking fast.

“Well, Jack came to Port Royal to… er-”  
“Visit his lady friend!” Scrum provided, proud of his quick wits.  
“Aye, a lady friend. But then he got shot by… by-”  
“Her jealous husband!” Ragetti added, and the other pirates nodded their heads nervously in confirmation. None of them knew what _exactly_ had happened to Jack anyway, so they figured they might as well come up with a tale of their own.  
“The bloke was furious, eyes bulging with bloodthirsty rage!” This time it was Pintel who gleefully joined in on the storytelling. “So he took out him pistol-”  
“Aiming for the C’ptain’s head, but he missed!” Marty threw in his bit to the tale.  
“Alas, the bullet bounced off t’ wall, straight into the C’ptain’s shoulder, as he tried to escape!” Scrum’s voice took on a dramatic tone.  
“I’m telling the story!” Pintel growled, giving them the stink-eye and stomping his foot like a petulant child.  
Before their jabber reached new heights of absurdity, Will decided to interfere. “Gents!” 

Noticing the mix of irritation and incredulity written on the Turners’ faces, Gibbs quickly plastered on a fake smile in an attempt to recover from their narrative fiasco. “Anyway, long story short, Jack fell off a cliff, got saved by two mermaids, and here we are”.

Elizabeth rolled her eyes, her patience running thin. “Was that _lady friend_ of Jack’s by any chance Governor Valjean?” She was met with Gibbs’ surprised stare while a heavy silence fell upon the room.  
“How d’ye know that?”  
“That’s how!” She approached Gibbs, angrily pressing the wanted-flyer against his chest. “Jack killed him!”

Glancing up at Elizabeth, then turning his focus back to the flyer, Gibbs studied the information intently, shaking his head in disbelief. He knew how much Jack wanted the map, for reasons he was yet to disclose, but to murder the Governor for it seemed out of character. Jack had no qualms about stealing, lying and manipulating, but murder was not usually in his repertoire. Still, they were pirates, and pirating occasionally involved taking a man’s life - some actually enjoyed it, but for the likes of Captain Sparrow it was more of an occupational hazard.

“What ‘ave ye gotten yerself into, Jack?” Gibbs muttered to himself when a realization hit him about the repercussions of killing the Governor - their whole crew was sailing a bit too close to the wind. “Slap me thrice, the entire Navy’s probably looking for us as we speak!” 

The other pirates turned their heads sharply towards Gibbs, awaiting his orders, the direness of the situation dawning on them as well, but the older buccaneer couldn’t make a decision without knowing what to do with Jack first. He turned a pleading look towards the Turners, and to his great relief, Will stepped up.  
“You need to get back on the ship, make sure it stays hidden.”  
“What about the C’ptain?” Marty asked, glancing between the two spouses. 

Despite her misgivings about Jack’s involvement in the murder, Elizabeth didn’t have the heart to send him away with a fresh bullethole in his shoulder.  
“He can stay here, but there’s not much we can do for him. He needs a doctor.”  
Will shook his head, glancing at the eerily still Jack, normally loud and vivacious, even in a drunken stupor. “No doctor is going to help a pirate, especially if he’s wanted for murder.”  
Pintel’s eyes flashed with an idea. “We can drag one here, tell ‘em he’ll be sharkbait if he don’t do it!”  
“Aye!” The other pirates cheered in unison.  
“No!” The Turners’ stern protest silenced the group. 

Elizabeth rubbed her throbbing temples, feeling a strong migraine brewing. “We’re in enough trouble as it is! Take care of the Pearl, come back in two days.”  
She glanced at a pensive Gibbs, whose entire focus was on Jack, worry coating his features.  
Realizing that he probably had no idea what had happened to the Governor, and that he only cared about the wellbeing of his Captain - the closest thing he had to a friend - she decided to soften her approach. “Mr. Gibbs, you can stay as well, help us take care of Jack.”  
A bit surprised and touched by the offer, he nodded in gratitude, then turned to his crew, voice stern and commanding. “Two days ye scallywags, and ye better tend to the Pearl like ye’d do with yer wenches!”  
“Aye, aye!”

The men turned to leave, Scrum being the first one to reach the door, when he suddenly stopped dead in his tracks, causing the other three to stumble into one another in the narrow space of the overcrowded room.   
“Oi!” Marty yelled, unable to see past the towering shipmates in front of him. He reared his head to the side, inspecting what had caused the abrupt halt. “What in the-”  
“Don’t move or I’ll blow your brains out!” It was Carina, standing in the doorway, blocking their path by aiming a huge blunderbuss at Scrum’s face, and judging by her fiery glare, she would not hesitate to use it. Right by her side was Henry, pointing his sword dangerously close to Ragetti’s throat.

“Hey, ain’t ye that whore-o-logist?” Scrum asked in a friendly tone that did little to hide his apprehension.  
 _“Horologist.”_ Carina corrected, recognizing the pirate instantly, her weapon still at the ready. “Why did you come here?”  
“It’s alright, they’re… not our enemies.” Will assured her, motioning for the two to put their weapons down. It allowed the Pearl’s crew to scramble for the door and disappear outside. 

Sliding his sword back in its sheath, Henry felt relief at seeing his parents intact, but he was still confused as to what was going on. He feared that the Dutchman’s old crew had come to take his father back to the sea. “When we saw a group of pirates entering your house, we thought you were in trouble-”

All of a sudden, a soft moan drew everyone’s attention to the still-unconscious Jack, spread on the table like a fallen bird with a broken wing. His head lolled to the side, lips slightly parted, taking shallow breaths with increasing difficulty. It was clear that he was in agony, the blood-soaked bandages only confirming what was already evident on his pain-stricken face - his condition was getting worse. 

Carina couldn’t believe her eyes. “Is that Jack Sparrow?”  
Handing the gun to Henry, she scurried over to the wounded pirate, her scientific mind already working out what to do next. A scientist she might have been, but she was no medic, and so her possibilities were limited… but not non-existent. 

“We need to get him to bed,” she said, looking between Henry and Will. They both nodded and, with Gibbs joining in to help, they lifted the sail with its half-dead load and carried it off to the nearest bedroom, which turned out to be the only guest one, adapted into such after Henry moved out of the Turners’ house. They placed Jack upon the mattress, tugging the black canvas from underneath him, and just stood there, while Carina started pacing around the room, browsing through drawers and cabinets. 

“Herbs, herbs…” she muttered under her nose, upturning one of the drawers, then diving into another one. Various letters, candles and other small belongings scattered around her, but she didn’t pay them any mind, her attention focused on finding an old herbal set she had once received from a lady she had worked for. She was sure she had left it somewhere in Henry’s old room when they had moved out. Finally, her fingers encountered a familiar wooden box and she grinned, pulling it out triumphantly, placing it on a desk standing in the corner to browse through the contents. 

“There were more herbs here,” she said, surprised, then turned to Elizabeth, who shrugged.  
“I might have borrowed a thing or two,” she answered, then seemed to shake herself a little. “I can get Will to bring some from his smithy - I know he has a set there from the last time he was getting sick,” she explained, and Will nodded distractedly, his eyes busy watching Jack’s twitching form.  
“Later,” Carina agreed, then picked out a few different types of dried leaves. “These should do for now. I’ll need hot water and some clean linen.” 

Almost like a pirate hearing her Captain’s order to give chase, Elizabeth jumped to and, dragging William with her, they went to collect what was required. In the meantime, Carina and Henry went to Jack, looking him over, their concern easily noticeable by Gibbs, who perched on the edge of the bed. 

“What happened?” The young lass asked, leaning over the prone figure and peeling the shirt away slightly, eyeing the wound. The edges were tinged with angry-red, made even more startling against Jack’s pale flesh. Blood was still oozing out from inside, barely a seeping trickle by then, and Gibbs winced when he took in the damage.  
“He got shot,” he muttered, turning his eyes to Carina. “Fell ‘nto the ocean.”  
“That didn’t do him any favors,” she said, frowning. “The wound will need to be cleaned and wrapped again, and we’ll give him some herbs.”

Gibbs stared at her intensely, then leaned in, eyes glinting in the darkness, filled with new hope.  
“Will it… help?” He asked, inclining his head, but she just shrugged, already undoing the old, blood-soaked bandages.  
“It certainly won’t hurt him more.”  
“Aye.” Gibbs agreed, then reached out to assist. Henry, in the meantime, dedicated himself to taking off Jack’s boots and finding a blanket to cover him with.

They managed to undo the dirty linen quickly and, when Elizabeth and Will returned, Carina was already busy examining the wound, her lips set in a tight line. If she was worried, it never showed in her movements, for her hands were as steady as the Pearl during an afternoon sail in a lagoon. With efficiency Gibbs could appreciate, she poked her way around the damaged flesh, careful not to make Jack twitch and moan too much, before she stood up and walked to the steaming bucket of hot water. Elizabeth offered her a cup which she gladly took, then measured out a portion of herbs to be steeped. In the meantime, Will walked over to the bed, peering at Jack with a mix of disbelief and horror on his face. 

“I’ve never seen him like that…” he whispered, eyes glued to Jack’s face. Gibbs patted him on the shoulder, trying to comfort the both of them.  
“Aye lad, me neither, and I’ve known him fer some thirty years.” The Quartermaster nodded solemnly, his concerned gaze sweeping over their unconscious Captain. Will hummed, then whipped his head around, staring at Gibbs.  
 _“Thirty!?”_ He asked, shocked. “How old _is_ he?”  
“Jack?” Gibbs raised his eyebrows and shrugged. “Anywhere b’tween forty and sixty, probably. It’s hard t’ tell.” Will shut his mouth with a click. Indeed Jack was an enigma, even to those who knew him for a long time.  
 _“_ Right.” He muttered, shaking his head and stepping aside when Carina came closer and situated herself on the edge of the bed. 

She soaked a few pieces of cloth in the cup of herbs, then placed them - dripping wet - on the bullet hole. The front was far worse than Jack’s back, and so, she focused all her attention on it, letting it take in some of the infusion, before she removed the rags and pressed around gently. More blood flew out, mixed with some whitish substance, and Gibbs turned his eyes away, gritting his teeth when Jack gave a weak whimper. 

Once his shoulder was declared clean enough, Carina told them to help with bandaging it again, which they eagerly proceeded to do, with Gibbs and Will holding Jack steady, while Elizabeth and Carina wrapped clean strips of linen around him. Henry, having no other duty, made himself busy with the dirty rags. In no time at all, they had Jack tucked securely under blankets, while Carina brewed another portion of her herbal tea. When she turned back to bed, placing the cup on the small bedside table, Jack’s eyes fluttered open. He looked around, blinking blearily, not focusing on anything in particular, until his gaze landed on Carina. The corners of his mouth quirked up - the closest thing he could achieve by the means of a flirtatious smile - and Carina rolled her eyes in exasperation. 

“He doesn’t change, does he?” She asked, shaking her head. Elizabeth leaned over the bed, trying to catch their patient’s attention.  
“Jack?” Her soft voice worked, and slowly, the pirate’s dreamy gaze wandered to her. Once he noticed who exactly was hovering over him, he winced, frowning, his lips opening on a hiss, showing a glint of gold. Elizabeth bit her tongue, remembering not for the first time that it had been her who had left Jack to the Kraken. Not to mention the time she’d burned down his beloved rum. She had thought it had all been left behind… Apparently, some things would never be amended.

“Capt’n!” Gibbs cried, grabbing Jack’s limp hand, squeezing it. This got Jack’s attention, too, and he gave Gibbs a quick glance, the frown still evident. His mouth moved, and a sound escaped him, but there were no words anyone could understand, so the Quartermaster only patted the hand gently. “Not t’ worry, Jack. We’ll ‘ave ye up an’ ‘bout.” Gibbs could swear he saw Jack’s lips twitch in a smile, but that was all they got for the next few hours, as their Captain drifted off, unresponsive once again. 

Carina was the first to get up, brushing down her skirts. She pointed to the cup of herbs, turning to address the room.  
“Yarrow. It’s good for fever,” she explained. “Whoever is with him the next time he wakes up, should try to give him some.” 

Everyone nodded and, before silence could settle around them again, Elizabeth stepped in, offering breakfast. Reluctantly, Gibbs agreed, and they shuffled to the next room, leaving Jack to sleep in peace.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 4

Strolling through the dim streets of Tortuga, eerily quiet for the usually bustling port, James Norrington felt uneasy. It was quite dark, the only source of light coming from the full moon glowing in the starry night. The streets were empty – no drunken pirates roaming about, yelling out profanities in a rum-induced stupor, no salacious women of questionable reputation, flaunting their bosoms in an attempt to seduce said drunken pirates. Norrington had always despised the place, especially after he’d experienced first-hand its hospitality towards inebriated ex-Navy officers, but the unusual stillness seemed even more unnerving.

Adjusting his feather-trimmed hat and straightening his pristine uniform absentmindedly, James was a bit surprised at the chink of a few pieces of eight that resounded in his pocket.

 _Calypso seems to have an eye for detail,_ he pondered, but there was no time to inspect what other items the goddess had generously included when restoring him temporarily back to life so he could do her bidding. With a resolved look on his face, Norrington marched on, determined to find a certain pirate. 

He had a strong suspicion where the man in question would be, and so, he couldn’t help but smirk in self-satisfaction when the lingering silence of the night was finally interrupted by a cacophony of noises - music, laughter, screams, chants - coming from a dimly-lit tavern, ironically named _The Faithful Bride._

_There you are._

Pushing the squeaky wooden door open, his eyes were met with a picture of utter chaos with dozens of pirates swarming like flies, drinking heavily, singing, telling each other stories or fighting over nonsense. That in itself wouldn’t be strange but for the fact that all of the men were incarnations of one and the same person – Jack Sparrow.

Norrington let out a heavy sigh, realizing he hadn’t been brought back to the land of the living after all. Whatever this Jack-infested place was – _A nightmare or the Eighth Circle of Hell, most likely_ – it certainly wasn’t the Tortuga he had expected. To make matters worse, handling one Jack would usually result in a head-splitting headache, but the idea of dealing with a whole flock of Sparrows would require tapping into levels of patience Norrington wasn’t sure he even possessed. 

_Let’s just get this over with._

Stepping inside, he looked around, trying to determine which Jack was sane enough to have a conversation with – a task that instantly proved to be extremely difficult. _That one’s too drunk,_ he thought, glancing at a Jack who twirled around the place like a ballerina while carrying four pitchers of rum in both hands, spilling most of it by tripping over his own legs. _And that one’s too sober,_ he decided when he spotted one solemn Jack, sitting alone in the far corner of the room, drinking a liquid he normally wouldn’t be caught dead with – _pure water._   
More Jacks came into view, including a sword-wielding one, jumping from table to table, swinging his blade wildly back and forth as if he was battling an opponent only he could see; one that played the guitar, merrily singing some old pirate chant; another one, clucking like a chicken; and if that wasn’t disturbing enough, one parading in a fancy crimson dress, waving a lacy fan in a coy fashion, and – to James’ horror – winking at him flirtatiously.

 _This is pure madness,_ Norrington concluded, his left eye twitching nervously. His mission was going to be even more difficult than he had initially anticipated. 

He had no idea.

Pushing through the crowd, Norrington almost lost his balance when a goat sprinted between his legs, chased by another crazed Jack who was crawling on all fours, insistent on using the same route as the animal did. 

“Leave tha’ poor goat alone!” A different Sparrow called out, this one posted behind the bar, pouring drinks for the others. James couldn’t help but notice the man was shirtless for no apparent reason, exotic tattoos covering most of his tanned body. The bartending Jack turned his attention to Norrington, gracing him with a friendly smile as he raised a cup of rum in toast. “Welcome to the Caribbean!”

_Right. Sober, water-drinking Sparrow it is then._

Taking a deep calming breath, Norrington decided to soldier on, his eyes set on the forlorn pirate who was almost completely hidden in the shadows of the tavern’s darkest corner. Not his first choice, admittedly, but at least that Jack wasn’t chasing any animals… or acting like one. Head held up high, he approached the brooding man with the same smug attitude he’d always reserved for nefarious buccaneers.   
“Sparrow, long time no see,” he greeted, folding his hands behind his back, secretly hoping for a startled reaction. 

To his utter shock, Jack seemed unphased, tilting his head slowly and revealing an icy glare that sent shivers down James’ spine.   
“Captain,” he corrected, his tone low and threatening, almost like a growl. Norrington had never seen him act this way. In fact, he didn’t think the ever-buoyant pirate was even capable of such a cold demeanor. Before he could come up with a witty retort, Jack spoke again, or rather, sneered.  
“Not in t’ mood for a chat, mate, so why don’t ye move along.” A distinctive cocking sound added emphasis to the statement, and James found himself looking down the barrel of a pistol pointed at his face. 

Norrington wasn’t sure if this Jack didn’t recognize him or simply didn’t care, but something sinister in his eyes made it very clear that he’d have no qualms about pulling the trigger. Not one to be easily intimidated, James kept a cool head, realizing there was no point in engaging with the scary version of _Captain_ Sparrow. He supposed everyone had a dark side – and Jack was no exception – it was just a question of how often one allowed their demon to rear its ugly head. In Jack’s case, it was a rare sight, making it all the more unnerving once it surfaced. 

The former Admiral held his hands up and backed away slowly, feeling relief when the pirate put the gun down, his attention back on the glass of water in front of him. James didn’t take more than a few steps when another Jack bumped into him, the impact of the collision knocking Norrington’s hat off his head.  
“Watch it, Sparrow!” he snapped, unable to tame his irritation any longer.   
“Terribly sorry, sir,” Jack said, and James was astonished by both, the apology itself, and the softness of the voice it was uttered with. As Jack lifted the hat from the floor and handed it back to its owner, Norrington took a good look at him, assessing he couldn’t be more than eighteen years of age. He seemed lankier than the other Sparrows, and his youthful face was as smooth as silk, save for a few whiskers shyly poking out of his chin. The dreadlocks tumbling from underneath his green bandana were shorter and thinner, but already adorned with various trinkets, beads and ornaments. The young Sparrow glanced at James, bright eyes glinting with vigor that was yet to be dulled by the harshness of adulthood.

“You’re new here, are ye?” The teen asked, flashing a full set of pearly white teeth when he smirked, before resuming his stride and disappearing into the crowd within seconds.  
 _A rather polite Sparrow – that’s a first_ , Norrington thought, somewhat fond of the young man, then his face fell when a realization hit him. Checking his pockets, he rolled his eyes and let out an exasperated sigh upon discovering that the coins he’d been given by Calypso were missing. Of course! The cherry on top of the cake of misery had to be a bratty Sparrow robbing him blind. He had half a mind to chase the little thief and shake his possessions out of him, but he thought better of it. The coins, along with everything else in that strange place, were just a figment of Jack’s mind – they held no real value to James, who had more important things to worry about anyway. One such thing was finding a Jack he could talk to without an immediate urge to strangle him.

Norrington slumped down on a stool by the bar and leaned against the wooden counter, resuming the daunting task of spotting a relatively stable Jack, before he himself went insane.

 _Note to self_ – he mused – _the next time a goddess asks you for help, just say no._

His thoughts were interrupted by a finger poking at his wig, rummaging through it, then pulling something small out of one of the neatly combed locks. Jerking his head away, Norrington swatted the offending hand off like it was some pesky wasp.  
“What in the name of-“  
“Peanut!” A Jack exclaimed with child-like glee, looking at his finding as if he uncovered a treasured artefact. James finally reached his boiling point.  
“All right – that’s it! I’m done! I give up! I can’t take this any longer!”

He saw red, jaw clenched so tightly it made his teeth hurt, as he bolted upright, causing the stool to fall over, his outburst silencing the whole tavern. All of the Jacks stopped what they were doing, focusing entirely on the screaming man in a Navy uniform, their faces blank, several pairs of dark eyes blinking in confusion. It was the perfect moment to make a dramatic exit, so Norrington pushed himself off the counter and rounded the bar, tunnel-vision on the back door leading outside. Sadly for him, he only managed to take a few proud steps forward before tripping over a pair of legs and landing face-first on the floor, which was met by a wave of laughter as the chaos resumed.

Norrington pushed himself up to his feet, nostrils flaring, eyes sweeping over the floor in search of the man responsible for his embarrassing fall – which was probably a drunk-out-of-his-wits-Jack or a sleeping-Jack or-

 _A mortally-wounded-Jack,_ he realized after his gaze fell upon the culprit lying on the ground, blood oozing from a fresh bullet hole under his collarbone. This Sparrow was completely still, his eyes closed, the steady rise and fall of his chest being the only sign he wasn’t a corpse. He seemed oblivious to the lunacy around him, as if he was on his deathbed, patiently waiting to take his last breath.

_That’s the one I need to talk to._

James’ anger deflated instantly as he lightly nudged Jack’s side with his foot to get a reaction. He got none.   
“Sparrow, can you hear me?”  
“Go away,” the pirate muttered, his eyes still shut. “And it’s _Captain,”_ he insisted in a petulant tone. Norrington couldn’t help but smirk a little. It wasn’t the level of enthusiasm he was hoping for, but it was a start. Crouching down, he leaned over the injured man.   
“You don’t look like a Captain,” he challenged, but once again, got no response. “You look like a man who gave up.” 

Jack was stubbornly silent, so James decided to change tactics. He grabbed a bottle of rum from the counter and put it under Jack’s nose, hoping the buccaneer wouldn’t be able to resist his beloved liquor. The syrupy aroma elicited a few promising sniffs, but then Sparrow turned his head away, disinterested. 

_He’s in worse shape than I thought,_ Norrington concluded, astonished by the development. Desperate times called for desperate measures, so he poured the contents of the bottle straight onto Jack’s head, inadvertently making it splash around and flow to Jack’s injured shoulder, causing the pirate to jolt upward into a sitting position with an ear-piercing scream. 

“Sorry about that,” James said, steadying the panting Jack, then lifted him up slightly and propped his back against the bar. “But at least I got your attention.”   
“That was… uncalled for,” Jack whined, still grimacing from the burning sensation spreading from the wound.   
“It got the job done, didn’t it?”  
“Why are you here?” Jack asked, sounding more exhausted than angry.   
“Calypso sent me.”  
“Yes, but why are _you_ here? Couldn’t she ‘ave sent some pretty lass… or two?”  
“Well, you don’t need _a pretty lass._ What you need is someone to bring you back to your senses.” Norrington replied, slapping Peanut-Jack’s not-so-sneaky hand away from his wig. “Or whatever’s left of them,” he added under his breath. “Unfortunately for the both of us, that someone happens to be me.” 

Jack seemed to barely register the words as his head lolled to the side, eyes fluttering shut, so Norrington put his hands on the pirate’s arms and shook him lightly, careful not to put too much pressure on the wound. James didn’t enjoy causing him pain – as tempting as it was – but he needed to get through to him and he was running out of ideas.   
“You have a mission to get back to, Sparrow. You need to snap out of it and get up!”   
“I don’t know if ye noticed, mate, bu’ there’s this little problem ‘f me being on t’ brink ‘f death,” Jack deadpanned, slurring his words even more than usual. “Now be a dear ‘n let me be.”

Huffing in frustration, James stood up and stared at the injured man in silence, unsure what to do next. He had witnessed Jack laughing in the face of danger on more than one occasion, carelessly waltzing into the most perilous situations and getting out of them unscratched, so to see him in such an apathetic state was disheartening. 

Then it came to him.

“You’re afraid,” he concluded, a bit surprised by his own discovery, crouching back down to meet Jack’s eyes.  
“Bah!” the pirate scoffed in protest, a bit too forcefully to be convincing.   
“You are. You’re afraid of death.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, he was simply stating a fact. “That’s why you refuse to leave. Here, you’re neither dead nor alive. _Safe.”_

A lesser man would have mocked Jack, rejoiced in his misfortune, but underneath the stern exterior, James Norrington was a compassionate person, full of warmth, no matter how much he tried to hide it.  
“Look, dying isn’t so bad. I would know.” He attempted to make light of the situation, his voice much gentler than before, but Jack’s blank expression told him he wasn’t very successful.   
“‘S not death I’m afraid of, ‘s what comes _before_ it I’d rather avoid.”  
“And what’s that?”  
“War,” Jack replied, more serious than James had ever heard him before. “Not just yer-garden-variety, all-guns-blazing kind of war. A battle of two powerful gods over the Caribbean seas. And with two deities at each other’s throats, it’s us, _mortals_ who’ll get the brunt of it.” 

Norrington’s eyes widened in shock. Calypso had failed to mention what was at stake, and he began to understand what heavy burden rested on Jack’s shoulders.   
“You need to do everything you can to _prevent_ it! You need to fight!”  
“Aye. I'm just tired.” Jack said, closing his eyes, exhaustion overcoming him completely. 

Biting his lip, Norrington decided to try yet another approach.   
“Do you remember what I told you when we first met?”  
“Not really,” Jack mumbled from under his mustache. “But I’m sure t’ words _gallows_ and _hang_ were involved.”   
“Yes, well, that came later. I said you were the worst pirate I’d ever heard of.”  
“Charming.”  
“I was _wrong.”_ It wasn’t easy for James to admit it, but his words were genuine, prompting 

Jack to crack one eye open and squint at him skeptically.   
“I’m sorry, mate, could ye repeat tha’? I don’t think I heard ye right.”   
Norrington rolled his eyes, but he couldn’t stop the corner of his lips from jerking upwards.  
“You are _Captain_ Jack Sparrow. If anybody can do it, it’s _you._ Time to live up to the legend." With that, James got up and extended his hand to Jack, waiting patiently for the other man to take it. Just then, the tavern faded away and black sails emerged from the darkness, the sticky floor of The Faithful Bride replaced by the neatly-scrubbed deck of the Black Pearl. 

Invigorated by the sight of his beloved ship… and, apparently, by Norrington’s little speech, Jack seemingly decided it was time to end the self-pity party and spring back into action.   
“Ye made some very good points, sir.” He quipped, flashing a smug grin, his dark eyes full of newfound zest for life. Taking Norrington’s hand, he pulled himself up, ignoring the stabbing pain in his shoulder. 

James smiled, proud of them both, but mostly of himself for accomplishing his task while keeping his sanity intact.   
“Good luck,” he said, tipping his hat. “Oh, and if you see Elizabeth, tell her…“ Norrington paused and Jack waited for him to gather his thoughts. Suddenly a flash of white light engulfed them both. “Never mind, she knows.” 

That was the last thing Jack heard before the blinding shine turned into complete darkness in a split of a second, and he found himself lying in bed – _someone’s_ bed – covered in warm blankets. 

He bolted upright, his shoulder protesting the sudden movement with a stabbing pain, but Jack only gritted his teeth and pushed on, crawling from under the covers and onto the floor. By some miracle, he managed to stand upright, although the whole room started to swim around him quite dangerously. Not one to be easily beaten by his surroundings, he swayed in tune, managing not to fall face-first on the flowery carpet someone had put there. The pattern on it seemed almost alive, as if a gentle breeze moved the leaves back and forth, and Jack frowned, looking around. He didn’t recognize any of his surroundings and that, usually, meant trouble for the Captain of the Black Pearl. 

The feeling of uneasiness, together with the weird dream, and the burning sensation constricting his chest, proved to be too much for him. Spotting a window, Jack moved towards it, bumping into random furniture only a handful of times. Once there, he opened it carefully, trying not to make too much noise, in case whoever-had-placed-him-there was listening, and swung his legs over the sill. Gazing down, blinking furiously when the ground below rocked like waves under his beloved Pearl, Jack wondered whether it would cease shifting once his feet hit the grass. It didn’t seem to be too far away from the window and, when he heard the doorknob turning behind him, he decided that he was ready to risk it. 

“I think I heard-” A female voice said, but that was all Jack picked up, for the next moment, he was falling down, the descent quite a bit longer than he had anticipated. When he hit the ground, temporarily blindsided by the pain in his throbbing shoulder, he could hear a woman shouting. Soon enough, a few male voices joined her, getting closer. Surprised to still be alive while his jarred wound did its damndest to rob him of any air he had managed to suck in, Jack opened his eyes. He wasn’t sure when he had closed them, but it had apparently been a good idea, as immediately upon blinking them open, dirt and leaves fell on his face. He spluttered, using his good hand to brush the debris away, twisting to the side to stand up-

Only to be stopped by branches woven around him like tentacles of a giant squid. It wasn’t as big as the Kraken, but it was made of wood, instead of the gooey, squishy stuff squids were usually made of, and proved to be a much more formidable foe, especially with one of Jack’s arms being firmly out of commission. He groaned, flopping around like a crazed fish, legs kicking out until someone grabbed them and pulled him away onto the green, fresh grass. The liberation from the wooden Kraken was such a relief that Jack grinned with his teeth still clenched tightly from pain, then squinted up at his rescuer. 

“What on the god’s green earth were you thinking, Jack?” Will asked, leaning over him, and Jack huffed, trying - and failing - to get up. It took some help to get him vertical again, but once his feet were on solid ground, Jack realized that Will was not the only one there. Gibbs and Elizabeth were present as well, both wearing matching expressions of shock, although Gibbs’ face showed a rather alarming shade of concern. Behind them, Carina and Henry crowded near the wall of the - ah, yes - the _Turners’_ house.  
“Are you alright?” Elizabeth asked, and Jack frowned.  
“‘Course I’m not alright. Would you be after fighting a squishy wooden monster?” He asked back, making Will’s eyes widen like a maiden’s on her wedding night.  
“Jack,” Gibbs interjected, taking a step closer. _“What_ monster would that be?”  
“What do you mean?” Jack scoffed, whipping around and throwing his arm in an all-encompassing gesture, showing them… _a bush._

_Oh._

Turning back, biting his tongue to stifle a groan of pain, Jack pushed past them.  
“Nevermind that.” He grumbled, raising his right hand and pressing his fingers softly to his injured shoulder, wincing when it responded with tendrils of fire crawling all the way down his chest and back. Halfway down a beaten path he had been brainlessly following, Jack realized that he had no idea where he was going, so he paused, a heavy frown appearing on his features.  
“Jack…” Will’s voice came from behind him. “Let’s get back inside…” The lad proposed and, after a moment of thinking, Jack nodded in agreement. It was getting quite chilly now that the afternoon was slowly coming to an end, and Jack felt himself shiver. Surprised, he glanced down, only to take in his bare chest and the bandages wrapped around his shoulder. The movement of his head caused it to spin again, and when two pairs of hands wrapped around his arms, Jack didn’t protest and let himself be led inside.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 5

Swaying back and forth like a cockboat on a stormy sea, Jack decided it was better to focus on his breathing and let the others take care of the moving forward part. They eventually managed to sit him in an armchair - at his insistence, of course. He wouldn’t be laid down in bed again, not if he was to have those ridiculous dreams-  
“Here,” Elizabeth said, unnecessarily angrily, handing him a mug. It was filled with tea, this much was evident, but there was the distinct alcoholic aroma rising along with the steam, so Jack grabbed the offering with both hands and drew it close to his chest, letting it warm him. Grog wasn’t his first choice when it came to rum, but it seemed that it was all he would be permitted. Sending her a small grin in thanks, he sipped slowly, waiting for the inevitable questions to start flowing his way. To his surprise, Carina was the first to speak up. 

“What was that about, then?” She asked, her face stormy. Jack blinked, his fingers tightening around the mug.  
“What was what about?”  
“You. Escaping.” She punctuated each word with her finger, pointing it menacingly at his face.  
“‘t was me dream,” Jack protested, but she was relentless.  
“You had a bad dream, so you chose to jump out the nearest window?” Carina went on, her tone flatter than the boards of the Pearl’s deck. “Are you crazy?”  
“I know I’m crazy, and people who are crazy don’t know they are crazy, therefore I am _not_ crazy,” Jack mumbled, sipping from the mug.

“Said the man who once traded his teeth for magic rum,” muttered Gibbs, earning a glare from Jack.  
“And we shall not talk about this.” Jack’s protest must have prickled Carina’s ears, for she paused, blinking at him curiously.  
“What?”  
“Aye,” Gibbs added, nodding, “it turned out to be just-”  
“Mr. Gibbs!” Jack’s growled yell made them all jump.  
“Sorry C’ptain.” 

The tense silence that made a sudden appearance in the room was broken finally, this time by Elizabeth.  
“Jack,” she started, her voice so serious that the pirate squinted up at her, taking in her face. There was something… _weird_ about her, something treading the fine line between confusion and anger, but in the shadows, something strangely vulnerable lurked. Something that looked suspiciously like hope. 

_Interesting,_ Jack thought, keeping the comment to himself, going back to his grog and letting her speak. His shoulder was burning again, and he longed for the swift kick rum usually provided, strong enough to erase all hurts that ailed mankind… But there was not enough of it in the grog he had been given, sadly, and he had to settle for the taste alone. 

“Jack, why did you kill the Governor?” Elizabeth asked, making him frown.  
“Didn’t kill him, luv. I merely _stole_ from him,” he corrected, trying to shrug and wincing when his wound reminded him of its displeasure with the movement.  
“Stole what?” Henry ventured, before Elizabeth huffed, walking briskly to the table and grabbing a sheet of cheap-looking paper. She shoved it at Jack, who somehow managed to catch it without sloshing his rum-ey tea around. Ridiculously proud of his achievement, Jack glanced at the crumpled… _wanted letter?_

“What’s this?” He asked, reading through it, his eyes widening. “Is this supposed to be _me?”_  
“They’re all over Port Royal. You’re a wanted man, preferably dead.” Elizabeth explained, to which the Captain only hummed. “The army is looking for you, browsing through every nook and cranny in the town, and there are talks of them- Jack?” She broke off, staring at the pirate, who appeared to be busy turning the letter around with an expression of utter confusion on his face.  
“Me nose doesn’t even look like that!” Jack finally grumbled, scratching the nose in question with one finger.  
“Jack.”  
“An’ me braids are not _that_ long! I always keep ‘em nice and trimmed. You ‘ave no _idea_ what sort of trouble you can get into if they get too long-”  
“Jack!” Elizabeth finally lost her nerve and grabbed the paper Jack was studying, tearing it out of his hands. He flailed after it, trying to get it back, but his shoulder protested yet another jarring movement and forced him to curl back against the armchair with a pitiful groan.

“What?” He barked back, his tone filled with petulance. “I didn’t kill him.”  
“If you didn’t kill him,” Will reasoned, “then who did?”  
“That weird bloke with a weirder name.”  
“A weirder name?” Carina eyed him skeptically.  
“Something… B-something…” Jack frowned again, concentrating. “Barnacle… Berty… Bertrand…”  
“Bernstein?” Elizabeth supplied helpfully.  
“That’s him! _Bernstein!”_ Jack grinned, raising his mug to toast her, then gulping down the remaining grog. “Stupid name… Must be from Prussia.”  
“Admiral Bernstein is to be the next Governor,” Elizabeth murmured, pausing when she realized that all eyes were on her now. “What? People talk.”  
“As much as I hate to admit that,” Jack drawled, looking at her, “our dear Lizzy here is right. He told me himself before I took that wee tumble down the cliff.”  
“But… why were you even _there?”_ Henry asked, sounding way too exasperated for someone his age. Jack grinned, raising his mug.  
“Ah, that is a longer story, mate, and as ye can see, me cup is empty already.” He shook it for good measure, making Carina huff and roll her eyes. A moment later, when it became apparent that he would not talk unless provided with rum, she took the mug from his hand and walked out. _Hopefully to fetch some more,_ Jack thought happily, while everyone else waited in anticipation for him to finish his tale. 

Carina was back with the grog quickly, handing Jack another deliciously steaming mug, before she sat down on the sofa, leaned forward on her elbows and seized the Captain with an icy stare.  
“Why were you in the Governor’s house, Jack?” She asked, quickly followed by Henry, who sat down next to her.  
“You said something about stealing. Was that true?”  
“Aye, lad,” Jack flashed them a grin over the edge of his mug, “Our late Governor had something very valuable - a map. I’d reckon, our less than likeable friend wants it very badly right now…”  
“Bernstein?” Elizabeth asked, joining the youngsters on the sofa. Will, always close to his wife, followed her, perching on the edge of the armrest. Gibbs, on the other hand, the true pirate that he was, chose to sit directly on the low coffee table placed a bit to the side. It made for a picture not unlike a ship’s mess, with the six of them in a rough, near-circle. 

Jack nodded and continued his story. “You see, me hearties, I went in there alone, long after the sunset, as quiet as Mr. Cotton when he’s smuggling food for that trained rat he keeps in the cannon deck.” Hearing that, Gibbs developed a sudden coughing fit, eased only by Will’s strong hand thumping him on the back. Jack smirked. “Aye, I _do_ know ‘bout it.”  
“Cotton will be sorry to see it go,” Gibbs muttered raspily, but Jack shook his head, making the trinkets in his hair jingle merrily.  
“Nay, let him ‘ave it.”  
“You’ll let a rat willingly on your ship?” Elizabeth asked, frowning hard, and Jack cursed his inability to shrug.  
“Why not? There’s enough rats in the cargo hold as ‘t is. One more won’t make much of a difference, eh?"  
“Jack,” Carina interrupted, “Bernstein.”  
“Right.” 

The Captain took a sip, then went on, humming thoughtfully.  
“So there I was, makin’ me way through that lovely house the Governor has - well, _had_ -, trying to find the map I wanted, when suddenly, I heard voices. I thought they would all be asleep by then, so, against me better judgement, I went to see what, or rather _who_ was up.” He made a dramatic pause, which resulted in all of them leaning closer, listening intently. “There they were, our good Governor and the devil himself, Admiral Bernstein. They had a bit of a quarrel, and since I don’t like to get into other people’s business,” Jack frowned, “ _especially_ bad navy blokes, I decided to honor the Code and make like a tree.”  
“Huh?” Henry blinked at him owlishly.  
“Leave, lad. _Leave.”_  
“From the wound in your shoulder, I guess that didn’t go well,” Will risked, earning himself a scowl.  
“Not… _particularly,_ no. I heard a shot, a body dropped, and when I turned ‘round, the poncy git held me at gunpoint, and the good Governor was on t’ floor, busy being the _late_ Governor.” 

Elizabeth stood up abruptly, then paced around for a bit, making Jack’s head spin, so he dove back into his grog.  
“He killed Valjean! But why?” She exclaimed, utterly confused.  
“Wanted to rule the Caribbean, luv,” Jack supplied, to which Elizabeth scoffed.  
“Rule? Even James couldn’t do that, and there was nobody better equipped for this task!” 

_Aye,_ Jack mused, _Norrington had a penchant to play by the rules. All class, that one. Which, sadly, led to his untimely demise…_

He told them as much, but other than a wistful smile from Elizabeth and Will both, nobody reacted.  
“So he knew that you saw him kill the Governor… what next?” Carina urged on.  
 _“Next,_ he told me to give the map back to him, I refused, I thought of something clever, just like I always do, mind ye, and I escaped.” He rattled out, triumphantly flashing his gold teeth at them.  
“You got shot.” Will observed in a deadpan voice.  
“Details.” Jack grumbled, side-eyeing him before returning his attention to the contents of his mug.

The conversation dwindled a bit after that, until Henry broke it tentatively.  
“So… you stole a map, did you?”  
“Aye,” Jack pronounced with a self-satisfied smirk, which quickly dropped once he realized that between him plummeting down from the cliff and waking up in the Turners’ house, the chart might as well have ended up on the ocean floor. _Bugger._

“Mr. Gibbs,” he turned to his Quartermaster, his sharp tone causing the other man to sit up straight in attention, “tell me ye ‘ave that bloody map.”   
“Aye, C’ptain,” the old sea dog replied, retreiving it from his pocket triumphantly. “Which reminds me, I ‘ave a message for ye.” He grinned mischievously, Mariposa’s cheek-searing smack echoing in his ears, but when he saw Jack let out a breath of relief and subsequently wince as his wound had made itself felt again, he thought better of it. “Maybe later.”

Elizabeth reached out and silently urged Gibbs to hand her the map, then she placed the yellowish sheet on her lap, unfolding it with a skeptical look.  
“It’s not very big,” she commented, studying the torn edges with a raised eyebrow.  
“Big ‘nough to poke an eye with it,'' Jack muttered into his cup before taking another sip of the grog. If the others heard his comment, they chose to ignore it.

Will glanced at the map over his wife’s shoulder, not impressed with the chart himself when he saw the barely visible outline of a coast sketched with what appeared to be _graphite_. Worse still, the map lacked a title, or a grid… or a scale…or directions… or any other significant details save for a tiny _x_ placed over a contour that seemingly depicted… a bay?  
“It looks like a drunken pirate drew it with his dirty fingernail.” He frowned, while Elizabeth turned the map over and displayed it for everyone to see. Carina tilted her head, perplexed. It was hard for her to fathom why the raggedy thing was worth getting shot for.  
“Jack, did _you_ sketch it?”  
“No!” The pirate replied, sounding a bit offended, which prompted Gibbs to speak up in defense of his Captain.  
“The ink must ‘ave washed out when Jack fell into the water,” he explained, somewhat apologetically, even though the state of the chart was not his fault.

“What is this a map of?” Henry asked, peering at the map intently and failing to recognize the location it was supposed to lead to.  
“Iceland!” Jack answered enthusiastically, expecting the others to share his excitement, but everyone just gaped at him, doing a splendid impersonation of a school of flying fish that had once landed on the deck of his Pearl.  
“Iceland?” Will echoed, raising an eyebrow.  
“Aye!” 

When the pirate provided no further explanation, Carina realized that Jack seemed to have forgotten they couldn’t read his mind, on top of the fact he obviously failed to pick up on the palpable confusion in the room, so she decided to push for some answers.  
“Jack, _why_ Iceland of all places?” 

Jack let out an exasperated sigh. There was a lot of ground to cover, and he wasn’t sure he had enough strength to spell everything out to them. Nevertheless, he knew they all deserved an explanation, especially considering that he needed all hands on deck with his mission. Leaning his head against the headrest, he mustered up all of the stamina he had left in his strained body.  
“Bernstein has this very shiny, very fancy Spear that he wants to use to control the seas… Or so Calypso said-”  
“Calypso. Right.” Carina stared at him, her eye twitching. “Do you ever make sense?”  
“Do _not,”_ Jack raised one finger in warning, “even _attempt_ to offend the mighty goddess of the Caribbean, lass.” 

Will looked down, seemingly lost in thought as he recalled his odd dream. The idea that the daughter of Atlas had a hand in the whole mess with Jack, the Governor and Bernstein was mind-boggling to say the least. Even more concerning was the fact that his entire family were being roped into the intrigue as well.  
“Why is Calypso involved?”  
“Because the Spear that Bernstein somehow got his dirty paws on belongs to none other than _Njord_ \- that is the god of seas and the coasts up in the far north.”  
“A weapon of a god.” Carina breathed, a hint of fear evident in her voice as she remembered the power emitted from the Trident of Poseidon. If the artefact Jack was talking about proved to be as fearsome, they were in big trouble. Jack nodded, forcing himself to stay focused despite feeling the exhaustion creeping in.  
“Whoever wields the Spear can evoke the wrath of the ocean itself. But our Prussian devil wants to do more than that, ladies and gentlemen. He wants to summon Njord _here.”_  
“And I suppose Calypso isn’t too keen on the competition,” Elizabeth concluded, fearing the reaction of the volatile goddess.

Recalling the ghastly sight of the ships that had been impaled on spiky rocks in the middle of the ocean, Gibbs swallowed hard as he began to understand what kind of foe they were going up against.  
“But…how is he to bring… Neord here, Jack?”   
_“Njord._ There is a sacred Statue of unknown size and shape in Iceland. Possibly a Njord-shaped Statue,” Jack mused, scratching his chin, “that has one significant element missing from it - the deadly Spear. According to an old Nordic legend, once the Spear is returned to the Statue, the god shall be granted entrance to the realm of the mortals.”  
Will blinked, then blinked again in an obvious attempt at making sense of the Captain’s words. “So Bernstein wants to attack the Caribbean... from Iceland?”

Jack rolled his eyes, his irritation growing along with the ever-increasing burning sensation in his shoulder. “Bernstein doesn’t even know where the Statue is, thanks to yours truly. But if he did, which he does not, he’d have to transport it _here_ , since Njord’s powers are bound to wherever his Statue resides.”  
“Ah, so you want to steal the Statue before Bernstein finds it?” Will asked excitedly, happy that he finally managed to untangle Jack’s convoluted scheme. The pirate’s blank expression told a different story.  
“Tha’ is ridiculous, mate. What would I do with a bloody statue? Hang me hat on it?” Explaining wasn’t Jack’s favorite part of any plan, especially when people kept on missing the point. “I want to _destroy_ it.”  
“Destroy it? Why?” As if on cue, Henry joined in, and Jack took a deep breath, winced when his chest protested, then let it out slowly through his teeth. _Patience,_ Jack reminded himself. _Patience.  
_ “Because Bernstein must not possess the Spear _and_ the Statue,” he started, frowning. He definitely needed more rum for this. “If he possesses both, the Spear and the Statue, Njord shall be summoned to the Caribbean, wreak havoc on Bernstein’s behalf, and we’ll have to face the very unpleasant prospect of two gods going to war!” 

A brief silence fell upon the room as everyone contemplated the terrible repercussions of such an event before Elizabeth finally spoke up. “So, what are you going to do?”  
Jack squinted his eyes, slightly annoyed that what he considered to be a very clear explanation somehow still went over their heads.  
“Focus, children. Bernstein has the Spear, but what he _doesn’t_ have is the map leading to the Statue,” he clarified once again, waving his right hand wildly, his left one going completely numb at that point. “Now, we can’t take the aforementioned Spear from him, but we do have the aforementioned map leading to the aforementioned Statue! We get to the Statue, destroy it, save the day, and have a pint of rum to celebrate afterwards, savvy?”  
Gibbs furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “But, Bernstein will still ‘ave the ship-wrecking Spear.”  
“Ah, but it won’t work with the Statue gone. So we have t-”  
“We?!” Elizabeth practically materialized in front of Jack, getting in his face so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. “I couldn’t help but notice you kept using the word _we,_ Captain Sparrow, so I can only assume it was merely a slip of the tongue, yes?”

Jack, who oftentimes found her tirades to be more amusing than intimidating, held his gaze unflinchingly, but even he could see there was something more than the usual sanctimoniousness lurking behind her fiery glare - _fear._  
“Oh, come now, Lizzy, ye know as well as I do this whole endeavor will require the services of the good ol’ Flying Dutchman.”  
“I forbid it.” She spat, standing up straight and folding her arms across her chest in defiance, her chin raised in a challenging manner. Helping patch Jack up was one thing, but letting her family embark on a possibly life-threatening adventure was where she drew the line. 

While Jack understood why she had her misgivings about the whole Njord-versus-Calypso affair, he also felt irritated at her refusal to see the bigger picture. His patience ran its course at that point - there was only so much a wounded, rum-deprived pirate could take - so he raised his voice in an attempt to appeal to the one thing he knew men and women tended to trust in the most - their self-interest.  
“Listen, this isn’t just a pirate matter - t’ war between gods will affect _everybody_ \- you, me, yer children, yer piglets, yer chicks and even yer goats, savvy?”

Elizabeth’s resolve faltered slightly, knowing that Jack was right, but she didn’t say anything. Looking around the room, the pirate noticed Carina and Henry suddenly became fascinated with the floral motif on the carpet while William’s eyes darted between him and his wife, unsure what to do. The only person who seemed determined to join the crusade against Njord was his Quartermaster. 

“Cowards die many times before their deaths, eh?” Jack said with a mixture of anger and disappointment in his tone - not sadness, certainly not _that._ Setting his mug on the floor, he decided there was no point in prolonging his stay any longer. His exhaustion was wearing him thin, the room swimming around him, and - finally having had enough of the awkward silence - he stood up.  
“I see this town’s siphoned the pirate out of ye lot.” He declared, turning sharply and making for the door. If he couldn’t get the Turners’ help to stop Bernstein, so be it.

Two steps into his walk, he realized that the door was swiftly moving away from him and that the room was still twitching around like a dying squid. Another shuffle forward, and the floor started to flounce as well, getting itself right under his heel and a lot higher than it was supposed to be. He glared at it, eyes throwing daggers at the colorful pattern on the lush carpet, before he lifted his foot yet again. He stomped forward, determined to make his way back to his ship, but his toes met only air as his whole body listed to the side and toppled over. 

He went down with a groan, thankfully landing on his good side. His shoulder was burning again, the pain making him dizzy, and he closed his eyes against the glaring pattern in the carpet, even worse when seen up close. _A true madman must have picked it out,_ he thought, slipping into darkness. 

“Jack!” Gibbs' voice rang above the oblivious Captain, his Quartermaster coming right after him, kneeling next to the prone body. It was disconcerting to see their mad pirate like this, fighting gravity on land and losing the battle miserably. Jack’s senses had always been keenly trained to hold nothing less than eight knots on raging waves, so the picture of him collapsing in a heap on the Turners’ floor filled Gibbs with cold dread. He rolled the unconscious form around to lay him flat, then checked him over. 

“What’s wrong with him?” Henry asked, shuffling closer tentatively. The old sea dog gritted his teeth, taking his hand off Jack’s forehead, where it had wandered.  
“He’s got fever,” he announced, looking up helplessly. Carina came closer, Henry following.  
“Let’s get him back to bed.” She ordered and, not waiting for Will to get up, helped Gibbs and Henry with the delicate task of dragging Jack back to the guest room. 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The rating has gone up to M just to be safe. If you want to know more, check out the end notes for this chapter.

Chapter 6 

Admiral Bernstein was standing in the Port Royal docks, glaring intently at the sea, and if looks could kill, he would no longer need the mythical Spear, held firmly in his iron grip. Earlier that day, he had received a missive from his men, proudly announcing that they had intercepted the Black Pearl and that the ship would be hauled to the port for him to personally _tend_ to it. Although Jack Sparrow had not been found yet, obliterating his beloved galleon would be quite the consolation prize. 

Bernstein could feel slight tingling in his fingertips as tendrils of mystic power coiled around the Spear, urging its master to release its full potential. _Patience, my dear,_ he murmured affectionately, as if to placate a needy child. Looking out into the horizon, eyes squinting against the warm rays of the Caribbean sun, he waited for the seized ship to finally emerge.

He recalled the day he had confiscated the Spear from a band of Dutch antique smugglers, who had been completely oblivious to the godly origin of the artifact stowed away in their cargo hold. Bernstein had heard his fair share of Nordic legends from Scandinavian sailors and merchants he had occasionally encountered in the East Indies, but he would pay them no mind, writing them off as superstitious nonsense spewed by drunken men - until the story of Njord and his mighty Spear had caught his attention. There was something alluring about the idea of a god’s power over the seas being wielded by a mere human - a force so ominous that even the fearless Vikings hadn’t dared to unleash it. 

The Statue and the Spear had been found by the first settlers of the Far North, the story of their origin long forgotten by the following generations.The Vikings had known of their destructive nature, however, and had kept both well-hidden for centuries. It had taken Bernstein years to find the Spear, and once he succeeded, there was nobody that could stop his quest for ultimate control over the Caribbean Sea - nobody except a certain infuriating pirate. He needed to find the pest and retrieve the map leading to Njord’s Statue, so that the Nordic god could gain entrance to this world and rule supreme, with Bernstein by his side as his earthly liaison. 

“Sir! Sir!” Lieutenant Lawson called out, running up to the Admiral excitedly, stirring him out of his thoughts. “There it is, the Black Pearl!” He pointed to the slowly-approaching spot on the horizon with an expectant look on his face, like an overeager puppy silently begging its owner to pet him for a well-performed trick. 

Tightening his grip on the Spear, Bernstein took a few steps forward to stand on the very edge of the dock and peered into the distance, a self-satisfied smirk gracing his features. He intended to enjoy every second of the carnage he was about to inflict on the ship and its crew.  
“Looks like the gallows will be very busy today, sir!” Lawson quipped, reminding the Admiral of his annoying presence.  
“No, they won’t,” Bernstein replied, letting out a sinister chuckle, but then his brows furrowed as his men steered the vessel close enough to take a good look at it. 

There was no doubt it was a pirate ship, with sails so dirty they appeared to be black and a Jolly Roger fluttering in the wind, but that was about all it had in common with the infamous Black Pear. Bernstein could tell, even from afar, it was a _flute_ \- a considerably smaller craft, its narrow stern along with its modest hull paling in comparison to the majestic presence of Sparrow’s three-masted galleon.

“Idiots!” Berenstein screamed, grabbing his Lieutenant by the back of his neck, causing him to lean forward, and pointed the Spear at the ship’s nameplate attached to the bow. “Read it!”  
“T-the B-b-black _Earl,”_ Lawson sputtered, realizing that a huge blunder had been made. “I-I’m sorry Sir! We made a mistake - it won’t happen again.”  
“I’m certain it won’t.” Glaring daggers at his subordinate, the Admiral sneered his words through gritted teeth as he tightened his hold on the younger man’s neck, making him wince in pain. “I would not recommend it,” he added in an unequivocally threatening tone.

Bernstein did, in fact, have one more ace up his sleeve - an informant among the Black Pearl’s crew, who had been feeding him valuable intel concerning Sparrow’s plans to steal the Governor’s map. Regrettably, the bastard had been inexplicably off the grid since the incident, so the Admiral had to rely on his men alone to find the bloody pirate. It was an unfortunate turn of events, but at least Sparrow had been shot, which meant he couldn’t have escaped far. Perhaps he was still hiding somewhere in Port Royal, and it was only a matter of time before his whereabouts were discovered. If his spy didn’t deliver, his soldiers would have to step up to the plate. Still, such a flagrant display of incompetence needed to be punished.

Sucking in a gulp of air through his nose to collect himself, Bernstein released the Lieutenant from his grip with a shove, and turned his attention back to the pirate vessel.  
“Let’s have a little fun, shall we?” His tone was almost serene, and Lawson found the abrupt shift in the Admiral’s demeanor even more terrifying than his earlier outburst of rage. 

Raising the Spear over his head, Bernstein summoned Njord’s powers, feeling a surge of energy coursing through his veins. The crystals attached to the weapon started glowing in an ominous warning of what was about to transpire, sending shivers down the Lieutenant's spine.  
“Sir! Our men are still on board!” He yelled out, but his plea fell on deaf ears.

The sky instantly became darker when a thick gloomy cloud appeared over the wretched ship, blocking the sun completely, as if attempting to shield it from the impending onslaught. All of a sudden, a sharp-edged rock shot out from underneath the Earl’s hull, piercing it all the way through with such force that the main mast snapped in half and toppled into the sea with a loud splash. The flute was lifted high above the water surface, impaled by the protruding stalagmite like a piece of meat on a fork. Screams and cries for help were drowned out by the sound of splintering wood as Navy men and pirates scattered around, hurling themselves overboard in a desperate attempt to save their lives. Some made it into the water, others were sent plummeting down into the hold when the main deck collapsed beneath their feet, but the most unfortunate ones got run through mid-air by several other spikes jolting up at various angles from the bottom of the sea. 

It took merely a few minutes for the ship to be completely shattered, its tattered, dark sails stretched hopelessly between the rocky tips, completing the sight of utter misery.

Lawson gaped at the wreck in horror, subconsciously taking a few steps back while Bernstein admired the view.  
“Did you enjoy the show?” He asked innocently, not even bothering to face the younger officer. No longer able to suppress the urge to run, the Lieutenant wordlessly spun around and dashed forward in an attempt to get as far away as he could from the Spear-wielding madman. 

He didn’t get far, not even midway through the pier, when a lean but elongated spike sprang up from the water on his left flank, inclined steeply enough to whiz just over his head, puncturing his hat and claiming it in the process. Knocked off balance by the sudden assault, Lawson tumbled to the ground, petrified to the point that the air from his lungs got stuck in his throat.

Bernstein spared him a glance over his shoulder, smirking at the sight of a man who looked like a lamb that was about to be devoured by a pack of hungry wolves.  
“Find Sparrow,” he ordered calmly, “or next time, you’ll lose more than just your hat.”

With that, he returned his gaze back to what was left of the Black Earl, deciding that the ghastly wreck would draw too much attention from the locals. If he was going to be the next Governor, he needed to keep up the appearances and make sure he was perceived as the hero of the people. Lowering the Spear, he tapped the shaft twice against the pier, causing the rocky spikes to drop back to the bottom of the sea as quickly as they had emerged, leaving the remaining debris to be picked out later by his men. 

-&-

Joshamee Gibbs had been sailing for nigh on fifty years, and more than a half of that stretch of time had been spent on pirate ships. Most prominently, the Black Pearl, with her crazy Captain, daft and brilliant at the same time. Jack’s ways had always been confusing to the general public, but his indisputable charm had been something that had lured various misfits in and kept them aboard the Pearl. 

Until recently, Gibbs had been quite sure that he had seen all of his Captain’s facets - as the Quartermaster, and the unofficial First Mate, he had been privy to an astonishing number of absurdities that seemed to surround Jack like a personal cloud of mischief, the stories turning into legends and myths before his very eyes. During their long years of friendship, Gibbs had witnessed numerous ideas being executed - ideas which, had it been anyone else, would have ended in broken limbs and necks stretched out on the gallows. But the Captain of the Black Pearl always landed on his feet, brushed off the dust and pushed on, a devil-may-care smirk on his face and a bottle of rum in his hand. 

It was disconcerting, then, to watch him like this, all pale and out of it, deathly still except for an occasional twitch, swathed in Turners' fresh linens. Jack had never been so _still_ in his life, at least not since Gibbs had met him for the first time, long ago in a rundown tavern in Tortuga. Whether mildly sober or completely fuddled, the Captain had always kept his wits around him, no matter if he was plotting a juicy broadside to a naval ship or climbing the rigging for an idiotic bet. 

The last thought made Gibbs smile fondly, the memory of one stuffy-hot night off the coast of Martinique coming to mind. They had all been becalmed for two days and, with nothing to do except trying to outdrink themselves, the crew had started to bet over progressively more ridiculous dares. Jack had been lounging in his cabin for most of the day but, once the evening had crawled closer, he had emerged finally, accidentally stepping right into the path which Andy and Jenkins had chosen for their stern-to-bow drunken race. After the inevitable collision and subsequent collapse of all three, the whole ship had fallen silent. There had been a lot of youngsters back then, so several pairs of eyes had turned to stare with fear as the Captain had righted himself and leveled them with a hard glare. It hadn’t been long, though, and that infernal smirk had been back in place. A few more bets placed with the Bosun later, and Jack had been climbing the Pearl’s rigging, trying to be the first to go from port to starboard without touching the deck. 

He had made it in record time, too, which must have seemed like an astounding feat for the younglings, seeing as Jack had been five sheets to the wind, having amused himself with a crate of rum for most of that day. When he had landed on a cannon, his balance aided by a sure grip on one of the lines hanging from the lifeless sails, the crew had presented him with the prize - a small Chinese coin with an image of a goat on it, a piece of red twine going through the square hole in the middle. As worthless as it had been - the currency too unfamiliar in the Caribbean to be exchangeable, the metal nowhere near precious enough to barter it - Jack had still accepted it with all due aplomb fit for receiving the crown of the British Empire. He had pocketed it and gone on with the silly bets, carousing with the crew and drinking more rum than had been sane probably, especially for a Captain of a ship. But, when he had stood at the helm the next day, barking orders to harness the slight breeze that had finally appeared, the coin had been there too, glinting between messy dreadlocks, swaying with the newfound wind and bringing smiles of admiration to their ragtag band. 

The coin was still there now, glimmering in the early-morning sun, half-hidden by hair splayed like a dead octopus around Jack’s head. He looked frail like this, almost completely lifeless, and Gibbs could feel the cold hand of fear gripping his heart. 

“How is he?” A feminine voice tore Gibbs out of his thoughts and he twisted around, just to see Elizabeth walking into the room, her expression full of worry. “Any change?” She asked, closing the door behind her quietly, coming closer to the bed. Gibbs shook his head.  
“None for now,” he muttered, his gaze directed back to Jack’s ashen face. Elizabeth came closer, walking around the bed and perching on the mattress, her nimble hands pulling the bandage aside, allowing her to peek at the wound.  
“It’s getting worse, isn’t it?” She asked, a redundant question if Gibbs had ever heard one. It was clear that the wound was festering, the edges of it tinted dark, a few streaks weaving around it like black tendrils, spreading down Jack’s chest. It was no surprise, really - with close to none medical care, it was bound to get worse and worse. Gibbs gritted his teeth and nodded.  
“Aye, it appears to be.” He paused, glancing at Elizabeth, watching as she placed one hand lightly on Jack’s forehead, her face a picture of concern. 

Their Captain was feverish, a fact checked and cross-checked multiple times over the past few hours by Gibbs himself. The Quartermaster had been so worried about Jack that he had sat there through the night, holding the man’s hand firmly, hoping for any sign of improvement. To aid in his recovery and keep him cool, they had stripped off most of his clothes, leaving Jack in his undergarments. Even the red bandana had come off and was now hidden inside one of Gibbs’ pockets, folded neatly and waiting for its owner to get better. Unfortunately, Jack’s state had only deteriorated. His breathing was more laboured now than it had been the night before, a never-ending stream of shallow gasps and shaky inhales. Gibbs sighed, deflating, staring absentmindedly at Elizabeth’s hands, busy with a clean rag. She soaked it in Carina’s herbal brew and brought it to Jack’s shoulder, attempting to clean it yet again. 

The Captain hissed, brow furrowing, and Gibbs leaned forward, hovering over him, trying to find even the tiniest flicker of light at the end of that godforsaken tunnel.  
“Capt’n?” He asked tentatively, then bit his tongue in anticipation as Jack’s fingers twitched and his lips quivered. There was a small noise, barely a grunt pulled deep from his throat, and Elizabeth paused her wound-tending, moving closer as well. Gibbs tried once more. “Jack?” 

Silence, stretching into a small infinity, and then-  
“‘Ibbs?” Just a whisper, but _oh,_ what a relief! The Quartermaster smiled, grabbing Jack’s hand and squeezing it tightly, happiness bubbling inside him when those dark eyes fluttered open for a few moments. The Captain started to say something else, a low murmur of words strung together so loosely it became an incoherent babble, and Gibbs winced.  
“‘S alright, Jack, ye’ll be fine,” he said, hoping to sound calm. A sharp inhale coming from Elizabeth told him he didn’t quite make it. Thankfully, she didn’t comment on the shakiness of his voice, choosing instead to focus on a bowl of cool water standing on the bedside table, soaking the rag in it and placing it carefully on Jack’s forehead. 

The Captain’s eyes fell shut again and a tiny grimace flickered across his face, his mouth working once more as frail words slipped out, brittle and thin like glass.  
“Storm’s comin’...” He slurred quietly, “storm’s comin’ an’ James… he was wrong...”  
“Capt’n?” Gibbs enquired, confused at the mention of the late Commodore’s name. He looked at Elizabeth, but she shook her head helplessly, just as mystified by what Jack was saying.  
“Poncy git…” He went on, “pro’ly had a… murderin’ carpet… with t’ swirls…” 

Gibbs swallowed heavily, cold dread making his skin crawl. A mumbling, rum-soaked Captain he could handle, but a sober, incoherent Jack was more frightening than facing the Kraken itself. Silently, he waited for another mutter, desperately hoping to make sense of _anything_ that would prove that his friend was not literally on his deathbed. 

To his surprise, Jack’s eyes opened again, staring blankly at the ceiling above him. His lips tugged up slightly, just the tiniest of curls that would have turned into his charming grin under normal circumstances.  
“Bugger,” he huffed, “‘m dyin’, eh?” The question sounded so final, so _chilling,_ that Gibbs fairly froze in place, his throat squeezing tightly. 

In the ghostlike echo the words left in their wake, it was Elizabeth who spoke, leaning over Jack to try and catch his gaze.  
“You are _not_ dying, Jack,” she stated with all the conviction Gibbs wouldn’t be able to muster, her voice taking on a strange quality that reminded him of mythical creatures. No wonder Sao Feng had once considered her to be a goddess in human form. “We will not let you die, understood?”

She sounded so certain, so _sure_ about what she was saying, that Gibbs felt his eyes mist over. There she was, their dear friend ready to help them. No matter what came out of it, she was willing to try and that, in the Quartermaster’s book, was something to be treasured. 

Sadly, Elizabeth’s declaration must have gone right over Jack’s head, for he grimaced rather sadly, his expression turning into a mix of pain and resignation.  
“Can’t hear her…” he murmured, so softly they had to hold their breaths to catch the words.  
“Hear whom?” Gibbs asked after a moment, when it became evident that nothing was going to follow.  
“T’ Pearl.” His eyes fluttered closed again, a tired sigh leaving him. _“Can’t hear me Pearl.”_

-&-

When Carina came back from the town, it was already close to noon. She walked into the house, closing the door behind her securely, before she hurried to the guest bedroom where Gibbs and Elizabeth kept vigil over Jack. She knew that Will and Henry were still out, having gone to William’s smithy in the morning, trying to keep up the appearances. It had been a good call, too, for it turned out that the whole of Fort Charles was looking for Jack, barging into houses and browsing through shops. Their little heaven was located far enough not to be very worried for some time still but, with each passing hour, the redcoats were creeping closer, and the threat of being discovered started to become a real possibility.

“We’re in trouble,” Carina bluntly announced, immediately capturing Gibbs and Elizabeth’s attention, then proceeded to relate the bad news. 

The Quartermaster bit his lip, pondering what to do. He suspected the pre-arranged meeting with the crew would be much more difficult now, with the coast swarmed by soldiers on a hunt for his Captain. On top of that, the man in question was in no condition to even sit properly, much less to make a run for it in case their location was found. Jack had been unresponsive since his last heartbreaking confession, the infection and the resulting fever sapping almost all of his stamina, leaving just enough to sustain his breath - and even that seemed to become more and more labored with each new inhale.  
“What are we going to do?” Elizabeth asked, breaking Gibbs out of his thoughts, to which he could only respond with a hopeless shrug. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so up the creek without a paddle. Carina, for all of her brilliant mind, appeared to be powerless as well.   
“We need to get him back to the Pearl,” Elizabeth finally decided, answering her own question since no ideas were coming from the others. It was only a matter of figuring out the how, the when, and the where of the plan. 

As if on cue, Will and Henry announced their return, accompanied by Harper - the youngest member of the pirates’ crew - and, surprisingly, Jack the monkey, sitting comfortably on the boy’s shoulder.  
“We ran into him on our way home,” Will said, nodding towards the lad. “They sent him here on his own to avoid attracting attention.” 

And a smart choice it proved to be, considering Harper looked less suspicious than a band of scuzzy buccaneers with rotten teeth, wooden eyes, and flintlock pistols tucked in their belts. Even his clothes were quite decent, courtesy of his Captain, who had always had a soft spot for the up-and-coming pirate, and had made sure the lad experienced a bit more comfort under his care than in his previous life.   
“The monkey insisted on comin’ too,” Harper explained somewhat apologetically, pointing at the animal, “and it wouldn’t take no for an answer.”  
“Aye,” Gibbs acknowledged, well aware of the capuchin’s fiery temper. “How be the Pearl?”  
“Hidden in Dead Parrot’s Bay still, waitin’ for her Captain,'' the boy replied, his eyes searching the room for Jack, expecting the man to saunter in at any given moment with a bottle of rum in one hand and his precious compass in the other. “Where is he? Is the Captain better?”

As much as Gibbs hated the idea of bursting the lad’s hopes for Jack’s miraculous recovery - hopes that he had admittedly shared at some point - he couldn’t lie to him, so he simply shook his head, a pained expression set on his face.  
“Worse. Much worse.”  
Harper’s head lowered and his shoulders slumped in disappointment, prompting the monkey to tighten its grip around his neck in a gesture of comfort. 

It was time to set wishful thinking aside and accept the harshness of reality - Jack was not going to magically heal overnight, he needed proper medical attention that the Turners couldn’t provide, which led to another pressing matter they all needed to address - the escape plan.

Elizabeth was the one who eventually broke the silence.   
“How did you manage to get past the Navy?”   
“I reached the east shore on a rowboat,” Harper explained. “If questioned, I was gonna tell ‘em I be fishing.”  
“Except you didn’t have a fishing net or a rod,” Henry pointed out. “You were lucky they probably didn’t think a kid could be a part of Jack’s crew.”  
“That was the idea, I guess,” the boy conceded. “The soldiers are everywhere.”

“How are we supposed to get Jack to the Pearl?” Gibbs asked, desperation creeping into his voice. He had played out various scenarios of their escape in his head, but in each one of them - the more realistic ones at least - they ended up getting caught one way or the other. 

“I have a plan,” Carina suddenly chimed in, surprising everyone since she had kept quiet for most of the conversation, “but you’re not going to like it.”  
There was a glint of mischief in her eyes that Gibbs recognized instantly - _Aye, there be no denying, she truly is Barbossa’s daughter._

-&-  
  


The Turners were a picture of innocence as they casually strolled along a dirt path leading to one of the more remote beaches on the island, not too far away from Dead Parrot’s Bay. In the eyes of an unsuspecting passer-by, the two couples appeared to be a family of farmers, transporting a huge stack of hay on a mule-pulled cart. Nobody would ever guess that underneath the several layers of dried grass lay a half-dead pirate with his effects at his side, accompanied by a cursed monkey peeking through the straws.

The trail they had chosen was quite rocky and uneven, but it was the least steep route they could use to carry their precious cargo. Gibbs and Harper had been sent away earlier, instructed to sneak out to the beach through the jungle and wait for the rest of the party at the drop-off point. It was important to look as inconspicuous as possible, in case they came across-

“Soldiers,” Henry whispered discreetly, noticing four armed redcoats on patrol coming their way.  
Will cursed silently, but managed to keep a cool demeanor.  
“Everybody stay calm,” he muttered, tipping his hat to the guards when they finally made eye contact. What was a brief moment of uncertainty stretched out to eternity, but the officers finally passed them by, seemingly disinterested. Elizabeth let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and glanced at her daughter-in-law who appeared to be as relieved. So far, Carina’s plan was working perfectly, and they only had a few more miles left to go.

Unfortunately, their elation turned out to be premature when a resounding “Stop!” echoed through the jungle, bringing them to an abrupt halt. Apparently, the patrol’s commanding officer changed his mind and decided to conduct an investigation after all. Approaching the cart, he took out his musket and smiled apologetically.  
“Do you mind if I poke around a bit? Better to be safe than sorry.”  
Without waiting for the Turners’ approval, he swung his weapon high, the bayonet ready to pierce through the hay and, possibly, the wounded man underneath it.  
“No!” Carina and Elizabeth screamed in unison, bringing confusion to the officer’s face.

That short moment of hesitation was all they needed as Jack-the-monkey shot out from the hay like a cannonball and launched itself onto the man’s face with a ferocious screech. An onslaught of scratching and biting ensued, causing the soldier to drop his musket and sway backwards, bumping into his two comrades. Acting on instinct alone, the fourth guard raised his weapon, but before he could even open his mouth and order them not to move, Will’s fist connected with his jaw, sending him tumbling to the ground. 

“Run!” Elizabeth called out and slapped the mule’s backside, prompting it to dash forward while pulling the cart with all of its strength. Taking advantage of the chaos, the Turners followed suit, earning themselves enough time to get out of the direct firing line before the soldiers found their bearings again. As expected, once the senior officer finally managed to pull the furious simian away from his face, throwing it full-force into the bushes, he commanded his men to shoot at the fugitives.

“I don’t suppose that was part of the plan,” Henry yelled out, running next to his wife as bullets whizzed past them, some decidedly too close for comfort. She didn’t respond, focused on keeping the pace while trying to come up with a way to lose their tail. They could hear the soldiers behind them demanding for them to surrender, but that was not an option any of them would even consider.  
“Seize them!” The senior officer barked, realizing that firing their weapons was futile, and the four began their pursuit. 

Meanwhile, spooked by the booming sounds of the muskets’ discharge, the mule rushed onwards with the speed its keepers never expected it to possess, extending the distance between them. The animal gained further momentum when the road became considerably steeper, and soon, its gallop could match that of an Andalusian horse. Swinging wildly left and right, the wagon barely held on to its hinges, creaking loudly in protest of the erratic movement, when suddenly, one of the wheels hit a boulder, the impact jolting the cart upwards and pushing its entire load high into the air. The Turners could only watch in horror as Jack’s limp body emerged from the floating hay, flipping like an omelet over a pan, before gravity took over and pulled him back onto the cart with a loud thud. The pirate’s effects hovered over the wagon for a split of a second before the wind shoved his coat and his hat straight into Carina’s arms while the heavier pistol landed on its owner’s lap.

Jerked awake by the collision, still feverish and dazed, the Captain of the Black Pearl bolted to a sitting position and saw a blurry picture of two ‘Lizabeths, two Carinas, and four eunuchs being chased by eight screaming redcoats. Without giving it a second thought - not that his foggy brain would supply one anyway - he grabbed his pistol and swung it over his head in an attempt to shoot at… _something._ The weapon fired, sending the bullet flying towards the sky in what appeared to be a missed shot, but serendipity had always been on Jack’s side in situations like this, directing the lead projectile towards a coconut tree just in time for the drupe to come off and crash into a soldier’s head, knocking him out completely.

 _One down, three to go_ , Carina thought, as she risked a glance over her shoulder to assess the distance between her family and their pursuers. The remaining officers were about a hundred feet away, leaving their fallen comrade behind, determined to capture Jack and his band of co-conspirators. If apprehended, all of them would end up hanging from the gallows or getting shot on the spot, neither prospect particularly alluring.  
Pressing Jack’s effects closer to her chest, Carina looked ahead and gasped when she realized the mule had veered off the designated road, pulling the cart onto a narrow, curved path with a rather sharp drop at the end of it.  
“Oh no,” she yelped, but there was nothing any of them could do to prevent the inevitable chain of events that followed - the animal took a sharp turn and stopped abruptly right on the edge of the drop, causing the centrifugal force to drag the cart over it, which made the already-strained draught pole snap under pressure, leaving the wagon hurtling downhill rampantly, with poor Jack still in it. 

Carina watched him go, jostling around in the cart, the others catching up to her with panic written all over their faces.  
“Go!” She waved them on, pointing to the wagon rolling down the hill. “I’ll throw them off!”  
“Carina!” Henry called back, worried his wife was about to get herself killed, but she urged him to keep moving, her mind already made up. 

Making split-second decisions had somehow become her recent pastime, and so, Carina threw on Jack’s coat and hat hurriedly, spotting the soldiers closing in on her. She twirled around, eying the mule with a wicked grin, then stepped forward, her hands traveling to the buckles keeping the remains of the cart still hanging off the animal. 

As the soldiers ran forward, their quarry a blurred shape in the distance, they noticed something strange happening. At first the figure seemed to disappear, just to emerge again, much taller this time. They slowed down, squinting their eyes in confusion, before it became apparent that their target started to get bigger and bigger. Stupefied, suspicious of some kind of a malicious plot, they stopped dead in their tracks, observing the proceedings with wide-eyed astonishment. The damned pirate seemed to be riding the mule that had previously pulled his cart and, despite his weird state earlier, he looked as if he was well within his faculties to mount the blasted animal. 

“Make ready!” The senior officer ordered, prompting his men to load their muskets full of powder and jam bullets inside. The mule-riding pirate came closer still.  
“Aim!” 

Suddenly, the figure veered sharply to the side, dashing through small bushes and over tiny rocks lining the path, jumping back onto the main road and kicking off with speed. The officer blinked rapidly, bewildered, before his training returned to him.  
“Move!” He shouted. “Move, damnit! Catch me that pirate _now!”_

Carina grinned, hearing the screaming behind her. She led the mule down the main road, through a small market square and into a narrow alley. Steering the animal by its short mane and with an occasional grab at its ears was not easy, but at least she managed to outrun the soldiers. As soon as she was out of their sight, she jumped down, sending the mule off with a swift slap to the arse. It went kicking and neighing, sprinting between the buildings and into the nearest forest, while Carina hid behind an old shed, pulling off Jack’s hat and coat hastily. She bunched everything into a tight bundle and fixed her hair with a piece of rope lying nearby, then slipped away silently, blending into the crowd of oblivious villagers, making her way back to the shore. Somewhere down yet another path, she heard a telltale screech coming from the dense crown of a wild apple tree. She paused and looked up, spotting Jack the monkey staring at her from between the leaves.  
“There you are,” she exhaled, reaching out, offering her arm. “Come on, we have pirates to catch up with.” 

-&-

  
While Carina was busy distracting the soldiers, the rest of the Turner family raced after Jack, trying to catch up to him and stop the cart from crashing. The man in question looked around in confusion, not fully aware of what was happening around him, but even in his compromised state he could tell that two wheels coming off their axles and swerving to the sides of the wagon was not a good sign.  
“Bugger,” was all he managed to mutter as the cart plunged into the ground and continued its descent _sliding_ down the increasingly steep hill, causing Jack to land hard on his back. The last thing he remembered was a sudden, sharp jolt, the sky doing a few somersaults, and the resulting pain, robbing him of any air his lungs possessed, as he crashed against the unforgiving sand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sole reason for the rating going up is the (nonexplicit) mention of Bernstein skewering some of his sailors on the pointy ends of rocks he conjures.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 7

Carrying a body over the side of a ship was a hard task in and of itself, but carrying a limp and pitifully groaning body of one’s  _ Captain _ was crossing the line of  _ hard _ and careening right into the  _ impossible _ territory. Joshamee Gibbs, however, did not call himself Quartermaster for naught - gritting his teeth, hoisting his precious cargo higher up over his shoulder, he climbed the rope ladder with as much haste as he dared to execute, knowing well that they had little time before they would be pursued into the seas as well. They had been lucky to have the boat waiting for them on the beach, and more lucky still to have Jack land right in front of it.

Once Gibbs had made it to the rails, huffing and puffing after the arduous scaling, several pairs of hands reached out to take Jack off him and placed their Captain safely on the deck. That done, they turned back to help Gibbs, too, but he batted their arms away impatiently, dropping with a resounding  _ thud _ right next to his friend.    
“What’s wron’ with ‘im?” One of the crew asked, the others joining him in their concerned inquiries. “Is he better?”   
“Of course he’s not better,” Pintel answered angrily somewhere from the crowd, but Gibbs didn’t pay him any mind. He could hear Harper coming onboard behind him, monkey Jack landing on the deck and taking off with a screech.    
“He’s worse than he was, lads,” he finally muttered, slowly getting up, just as a shout came from the crow’s nest.    
“Sail ho!” 

A ship appeared, just behind the rock outcrops, its mainmast barely visible from the distance. Gibbs cursed, then cursed again, glancing back at Jack, very much oblivious to the situation they had all found themselves in.    
“Mr. Gibbs?” Marty asked, sounding a little anxious. “Do we have a heading?”    
“For now just take us outta here!” Gibbs ordered, looking at the rest of them. “Mr. Cotton, make way! To the sails boys, full canvas! If they catch us, we’re all dead.”    
“Aye, aye!”    
“Harper, yer on the lookout, boy. Keep an eye on ‘em and don’ fall over the taffrail! Ragetti, Cole, c’mere!” He barked, kneeling next to Jack, a bit relieved to see his Captain’s eyes opened a crack and watching them idly. 

A few moments later, together with Cole and Ragetti, they managed to heave Jack up to transport him to his cabin. A couple of swaying steps, a bit of wrestling with the door, and two stumbles later, their Captain was in his cot, stiff as a board from pain, muttering under his nose. Gibbs shooed the others away, leaning over his wounded friend, watching him worriedly.    
“Jack?”

Kohled eyes squeezed shut even more tightly, and the Captain hissed with a sharp inhale.    
“How bad?” He managed through gritted teeth. The Quartermaster shrugged.    
“They’re on our tail, if that be what ye mean. As for yer shoulder…” he winced, and Jack grimaced, his right hand shooting forward, fingers twisting in Gibbs’ shirt. “We’re already underway… but… Capt’n?” He asked frantically when the grip on his clothes lessened and the hand fell away.    
“Wildlands,” Jack muttered, slipping into unconsciousness again, his head lolling to the side. 

Gibbs waited for a moment longer, but when nothing else happened, he decided to get out and see to their course. He knew well what Wildlands were - a few late-night talks with their Captain had been very informative indeed - but he had no clue how to get there. Rubbing his forehead thoughtfully, he stepped onto the main deck and moved quickly through the crew. Everyone was busy heaving lines and manning the yards, the Pearl gaining speed slowly but surely.    
“Mr. Gibbs!” Harper shouted, scrambling down to him, then stumbled over a rope and fell face first in front of him.    
“Easy lad,” he muttered, helping the youngster to his feet.    
“Sorry, sir,” Harper stuttered out, swaying a bit. “The ships! There’s five of them!”    
“Five?!”

Breaking into a dead run, Gibbs went to the taffrail, a cold shiver of fear slithering down his spine. They were almost sailing into the wind, not enough way yet to make sufficient adjustments, and with the full Navy on their tail, there was no chance for an escape.    
“Brace the yards, ye blackguards! Or ye’ll hang from ‘em and hail bloody Mary to ye!” He shouted, then squinted at the vessels following them. More and more masts emerged, seven ships now, and he cursed juicily, seeing them gaining speed. The winds were more favorable behind the outcrop, it seemed, and Gibbs glanced at their own sails, willing them to fill. 

“They’re gainin’ on us,'' Ragetti observed somewhat panicky, running from one sheet to another, attempting to keep the ropes tight. It helped a bit, the Pearl getting some way under the rudder finally.    
“Hard to port, Mr. Cotton! We can’t pinch!” Gibbs ordered, going back to the helm. The everpresent parrot squawked, then ruffled its feathers.   
_ “Heading! Heading!” _ It said, then gave a sharp trill. Somewhere in the background, monkey Jack screeched again. Gibs growled.    
“Get us out into the open, Mr. Cotton!”    
“Sir!” Harper asked from the side. “Won’t they catch us against the wind?” 

As much as the Quartermaster hated unnecessary questions, he knew that the kid had a point. The Black Pearl might have been the fastest ship  _ downwind,  _ but running this close, there was no doubt that once the Navy pulled out the sweepers, they would all be dead. He glanced astern, taking in the white sails behind them, some of them too close for comfort. In the night, when the breeze ran from the shore, they could make it, but in broad daylight, with the wind blowing from the sea and curving along the cliffs, it would be stupid to waste time with aimless tacking.  _ They needed a heading. _

Becoming quite desperate, Gibbs was ready to give the orders, push them through to Tortuga at the very least, when suddenly, a powerful splash tore him out of his thoughts. He whipped his head around, his eyes widening at the sight. 

Not fifty yards from them, in a literal explosion of white foam, the Flying Dutchman emerged, breaking the surface with a deafening roar of water and a howl of strained wood. Dripping and sleek, it sailed closer, and Gibbs opened his mouth in astonishment when he spotted not only Bootstrap, the First Mate and the current master of the Dutchman, but also two younger generations of Turners, all gathered on the main deck, along with the soaked crew. William grinned at them and waved his hand around, bringing his ship closer, a true pirate Captain if Gibbs had ever seen one. 

“Will!” He screamed when they were within an earshot, leaning over the rails, watching as the head of the Turner family climbed up the side rigging for a better communication spot.    
“Where are we going, Gibbs?” He shouted back, glancing briefly at the Navy following them, perilously close by now.    
“Jack said  _ Wildlands, _ but I don’t know how to get there!” He answered, and Will’s eyes narrowed in concentration, before they widened in recognition.    
“The one with the tribe?” He asked. Seeing Gibbs’ furious nod, he beamed. “Follow us!” 

As he hopped onto the deck, Will shouted orders left and right, prompting everyone to jump into action, and in no time at all they were underway, thankfully catching some wind at last. It seemed that the Dutchman’s Captain had a knack for navigation passed down to him straight from the goddess of the sea, for he seemed to find wind where there was none. Keeping a safe distance, just enough not to block the other ship, the Pearl followed, the Navy still at their tail. 

Whoever was in charge of the fleet behind them - probably Bernstein himself - was hell-bent on catching them, though. A few minutes of calmness was all they were granted, before the sound of cannons started booming and echoing around them, the balls swishing past the Pearl and falling into the sea right next to their port. One, two, three…  _ six of them.  _ Gibbs frowned, looking back from his half-duck position near the helm. The short ceasefire meant they were reloading their guns, which gave the pirate crews a brief moment to regroup. There were no cannons on either ship that could fire from their sterns, and the idea of turning for a volley didn’t sit right with the Quartermaster. Scratching his head, he started to frantically rake his brain for some kind of a solution. Taking into consideration that the rain had started to fall, they would have to-

_ Rain!? _

Gibbs tilted his head back, taking in the black clouds that had somehow gathered above them unnoticed. They were heavy and thick, tumbling over the sky like a furious hurricane, first fat drops falling down in abundance. Soon enough, it was raining heavily, the wind keeping its steady course and pushing them forward, blowing in a contrapoint to the currents high in the sky and propelling the clouds in the opposite direction. The downpour shrouded them swiftly, cutting them off the Navy and providing them with a safe passage to the open waters. As the men cheered, spluttering and shaking the wetness out of their ears, Gibbs could swear he had heard laughter up in the clouds, wicked and haunting. 

_ Calypso. _

Grinning like a madman - like  _ Jack _ \- the Quartermaster sent a quick prayer of thanks to the dark sky above, then left the helm in Mr. Cotton’s capable hands. 

-&-

Almost a mile back now, in the heavily falling rain, Bernstein watched the ships disappear. The Spear tingled in his hands, its energy angrily demanding to be released, and the Admiral ran his fingers delicately along the shaft, hoping to soothe the power residing within. They had been too far away for him to perform any magical Norse tricks, as the usage of the artifact required one to be relatively near the target. By the time they had closed in on the Black Pearl, a hurricane had already started above them, a literal storm coming out of the blue and slowing their progress.

“Filthy pirates!” Bernstein growled, his eyelid twitching, as the cursed ships disappeared from his sight, hidden among the falling rain. There were two of them now, the Ferryman’s boat having joined Sparrow’s black nightmare, coming to the rescue like an overeager Lieutenant helping his fallen Captain. 

“Sir? Should we give chase?” A voice asked, spluttering a bit in the downpour, and Bernstein rolled his eyes. _Speaking of overeager Lieutenants…_   
“No, you fool. We will never catch them running downwind!”   
“But… We are sailing close, Sir…” Lawson observed in a small voice.   
_“We_ are, but _they_ seem to have found some kind of a draft to fill their sails.” Bernstein scowled, pointing in the direction where the ships had disappeared not a few minutes ago. A thunder rumbled above them, one of the masts creaking dangerously as the foresail was taken aback. The Admiral looked up, squinting at the heavy clouds.

_ Ah! A divine intervention… _ Whoever was the current Captain of the Flying Dutchman still had Calypso’s favors. Bernstein knew well what kind of vessel it was - the legends about it ran wide and wild in many ports. He had been under the impression, however, that the ship was no longer in commission, left by Davy Jones in the hands of some whelp… At least that was what the stories said. 

“Take in sails, brace the yards and make for the shallows,” he ordered, wanting to go around the sudden hurricane. They would lose the Pearl that way, but there was no reason to try and brave it through the storm. It would put everyone in danger, and he needed hands to catch Sparrow and get the damned map back from his clutches. Besides, the Navy’s new pride and joy - a first-rate Alexandria they were currently on - was too beautiful and useful a ship to sink it a few miles from her home port. They would get the Pearl another way… 

Bernstein smirked, remembering his spy among the Pearl’s crew, assimilated so well he had even fooled the great Captain Sparrow. Placing a figurative rat on a pirate ship filled with equally despicable creatures had been one of his brighter ideas, and now, it would prove useful indeed. All they had to do was wait for a missive from one port or another, then set their sails and follow the Pearl… Maybe even sit at their tail and let the witless pirate lot lead them to the Statue. 

  
-&-

The storm that had saved them from Bernstein’s bloodthirsty redcoats had stayed behind and let them continue on undisturbed, a fact Gibbs had taken full advantage of, keeping the Pearl speeding forward, sails full and a bone in her teeth. By the time the evening approached, they were almost halfway through their voyage, but as the wind started to die down, the Quartermaster ordered the sails to be trimmed tightly and changed the watch to keep the lookouts sharp. 

“Mr. Gibbs, sir,” Ragetti asked from behind him, and the old seadog turned around, spotting not only the wooden-eyed pirate, but also the better part of the crew, all standing in a group, their expressions a mixture of fear and curiosity.    
“Aye?”    
“We be wondering…” Ragetti started, hesitating, but Pintel butted in with his usual bluntness.    
“We be wonderin’ where we sailin’, boss.”    
“Is it true we’re goin’ to the Wildlands?” Marty piped in, a few others joining with inquisitive grunts. Gibbs nodded.    
“Aye, we are.” 

A beat of silence, then the whole deck exploded in shouts, some fearful some disgusted.   
“The tribe!”   
“Devil goats!”   
“The _toads!”_  
“Gents!” Gibbs interrupted, somehow getting their attention. They quieted down, their gazes focused on him, an undercurrent of panic running through the air. “The Capt’n is hurt an’ if anyone’s gonna help ‘im, it’s the tribe,” he explained.   
“But… the _goats!”_   
“Aye!” Gibbs scowled. “The goats! And the toads! And all the creatures up there will be on our side, boys. Don’t ye forget it’s Jack Sparrow we’re talkin’ ‘bout here! Don’t ye wanna save yer Capt’n?” 

There was a brief pause, during which they all seemed to look to the side, contemplating something. Gibbs gritted his teeth and waited. A few tense moments, a couple of tiny murmurs, and Ragetti raised his head, glancing between his comrades.    
“He would have saved us, I’d reckon.”    
“Aye!” Someone agreed loudly. “Capt’n Jack would!” The others joined in, nodding decidedly.    
“He would never leave us!”    
“Ay, he’s a good man!”    
“We need ta help ‘im!”    
“Aye!” The last word resounded with an echo, carrying over the quiet water. “Aye!” 

Happy that the conflict had been settled before it had been given the chance to blow out of proportions, Gibbs left Mr. Cole at the helm and made his way to the Captain’s cabin. Harper greeted him inside with a tiny smile - more of a tight-lipped grimace, really - and the Quartermaster came closer to the cot, taking in the still figure sprawled among the many blankets.    
“How is he, kid?” He inquired, but Harper just shook his head sadly, dragging his gaze back to Jack. “He’ll be alright, mark me words.” Gibbs placed a careful hand on the boy’s shaking shoulder.    
“He has fever still,” Harper murmured, rubbing his nose angrily with the back of his wrist. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” He asked in a wet whisper, his eyes lifting, suspiciously misty in the half-darkness around them. “Is he going to die?”    
“Nay, lad.” Gibbs shook his head. “He’s Jack, he’s gonna fight, so don’t ye worry now.” He hoped his voice sounded steadier than he felt. 

Thankfully, Harper seemed satisfied with the answer, nodding determinedly and glancing back at their unconscious Captain. The child-like wonder battled with fear, a fact easily glimpsed from his troubled expression alone, and Gibbs sighed heavily. He knew well just how inspiring Jack could be, especially to easily-impressed, mistreated youngsters. There was something soft about his friend, something that lured damaged misfits in and gave them a new sense of belonging. To have such a feeling of security pulled away from him before he had learned to be his own man must have been horrible for Harper. 

“Ye’ve been sittin’ here for a while, boy,” Gibbs prodded, to which he received an absentminded nod. “Ye missed the dinner.”    
“I guess.” He shrugged, his gaze never leaving Jack.    
“Go, get somethin’ to eat. The cook saved ye some soup.”    
“Alright.”

Moving stiffly, Harper stood up, then walked to the door. Before he disappeared outside, however, Gibbs called out to him.    
“Ey lad? Tell Mr. Cole to pull us along the Dutchman and hail them.”    
“Yes, sir.” And he went out, closing the door behind him. 

The Quartermaster nodded to himself, looking back at Jack, taking in the pale skin and the pained frown marring his Captain’s face. Gibbs was not one for praying, having left the churches a long time before, but he was ready to fall to his knees and beg any god who was still listening to save Jack.   
“Ye need to get better, ye soggy buzzard! Harper’s gonna bawl his eyes out if ye die, and ye don’t wanna make the kid cry, d’ ye?” 

Jack remained unconscious, but his fingers twitched, tightening briefly in the blanket, head lolling to the side, frown deepening. With a sigh, Gibbs adjusted the bandage around his shoulder, then went to the deck, leaving their Captain to rest. 

-&-

The sea was soothingly calm, the sun almost completely hidden behind the horizon, tinting the sky with a deep violet hue as the day lazily transitioned into evening. A wooden plank creaked lightly under Elizabeth's and Carina’s boots when they used it as a bridge between the Dutchman and the Pearl, the two powerful vessels sailing next to one another, close enough for their yardarms to be almost-touching. The women’s floaty dresses had beern swapped in favor of breaches and shirts, more comfortable as far as pirating and fleeing the Royal Navy was concerned. They were soon followed by Will and Henry, leaving the Dutchman in Bootstrap’s care once again. 

Gibbs welcomed the Turners onboard, then smirked at the sight of Elizabeth back in her old pirate garb, reminding him of the time she would weigh anchor and hoist the mizzen with the rest of them.   
“Not a word,” she warned, but a smile reached her eyes nonetheless. It soon faded, however, as there were more serious things to discuss with the Quartermaster. “How is he?”   
Reluctant to talk about his Captain’s condition in front of the crew, Gibbs motioned for them to follow him to Jack’s cabin, where they could assess his health for themselves and decide on the next course of action. 

On their way, Harper ran up to Will and gave him a strange look, the cogs in his brain turning quickly. After a moment of hesitation, the boy’s curiosity won over and he was no longer able to suppress the urge to ask a question that had been on his mind since their grand escape from Port Royal.   
“Mr. Turner, sir, how does it work? Do you breathe underwater when the Dutchman sinks below?”    
Will smiled. He imagined what Henry must have been like his age, all wide-eyed and pure, trying to make sense of the world around him, no matter how many times it didn’t.    
“Yes, we can.”    
“But  _ how?” _

Will thought about it for a moment, trying to find the words to explain it in simple terms and coming up short in the end.    
“Calypso’s blessing for the ship,” he eventually replied, hoping to avoid any follow-up questions as there were more pressing matters to attend to. The young man’s brows furrowed in confusion, but he daren’t say anything else, sensing his timing wasn’t ideal.    
“Harper, tell Mr. Cole to keep ‘er steady till we’re done here,” Gibbs said, opening the cabin’s door for the Turners, a sense of urgency evident in his voice.    
“Aye, aye!” The lad responded and scurried off to fulfill the order.   
With a heavy sigh, the Quartermaster watched him go, then slipped inside, closing the door behind him.

The five of them gathered around Jack’s bed, studying its sickly occupant in quiet contemplation before Henry broke the silence.   
“He looks paler than a ghost.”    
“Aye, not a good color on Jack,” Gibbs added, shaking his head in resignation. He wished there was something more he could do for the Captain, but he was at the end of his rope, having no medical expertise whatsoever.

Carina, being the designated physician of the group, decided to take over from there and put her hand on Jack’s forehead, trying to determine if the fever came down at least a little bit. It didn’t, as evidenced by the heat radiating from his skin. The soaked bandage around his shoulder screamed for attention as well, demanding to be redressed immediately.    
“I’ll need a clean cloth... and some space,” she said authoritatively, prompting the others to take a few steps back, allowing her to work freely. They sat down behind the large, round table at the center of the cabin, having nothing else to do but to provide emotional support.   
“There be no clean rags left on the ship, I don’t think,” Gibbs mused, “but Jack has a penchant for keepin’…  _ souvenirs, _ so ye might find somethin’ useful lyin’ around.”

Taking this as a permission to rummage through Jack’s belongings, Carina went over to his rolltop desk in search of a piece of clothing or any sort of fabric she could use for a bandage. The wooden surface was almost completely covered with charts and navigational instruments lying in disarray, truthful to their owner’s chaotic nature.   
“That’s  _ a lot _ of maps Jack has stolen,” she muttered under her breath, loud enough for the Quartermaster to overhear it.    
“Most of ‘em he drew himself,” Gibbs explained, piquing the others’ interest.   
“Did he?” Elizabeth asked, a bit surprised that Jack was capable of performing such a difficult task. She knew how proficient he was at  _ reading _ maps, but to make the necessary calculations to  _ create _ one was a whole different story. “Where did he learn how to do that?”   
“I’m not sure,” Gibbs admitted, “but I remember him sayin’ that he used to be the ship’s Chartman, back when he be sailin’ under Captain Morgan’s command.”    
“Morgan being the original skipper of the Pearl, I take it?” Will chimed in, intrigued by the little tidbit of Jack’s past.    
“Well, not exactly the P-” the old pirate started to explain, but was interrupted by Carina’s loud gasp.

They all turned their heads sharply in her direction, alarmed by such a strong reaction, then relaxed a bit when they realized she was merely admiring a tall bookcase that she had just discovered. With her constant thirst for knowledge, Carina was naturally drawn to it like a moth to a glowing oil lantern in the middle of the night. 

The self-proclaimed horologist had to admit that Jack’s book collection was quite impressive, ranging from classics by Shakespeare, Milton, and Dante to philosophical works by Confucius, Plato, Arystotele, and Sofokles. Among the neatly stacked leather-bound tomes, there was also a number of scientific publications by Newton, Linnaeusand, and Galileo Galilei, as well as several rather obscure writings that Carina wasn’t familiar with, including an odd Sanskrit manuscript that caught her attention.    
“Kama Sutra,” she read the strange title out loud, opening the book curiously, only to close it with a yelp immediately afterwards, slapped by the richly-illustrated content she was not prepared to see. 

A bit shaken still, but not discouraged from going through the rest of the collection, Carina continued her exploration, the task of finding a makeshift dressing for Jack’s wound temporarily forgotten.   
“She’s in heaven right now,” Henry commented blankly, well aware of his wife’s obsession with literature, which was one of the many things he loved about her. He hadn’t suspected, however, that it was something she and the eccentric pirate had in common.    
“I never would have pegged Jack for a bookworm,” he added, somewhat amused by the revelation.    
“Aye, the C’ptain enjoys readin’ quite a bit,” Gibbs replied, scratching his chin, thinking of all the long and uneventful voyages Jack had spent immersed in a Shakespearian play or a satirical piece of choice. “When he’s not too drunk that is.”

The Quartermaster smiled fondly as he recalled the time when Jack, having had one too many pints of his beloved rum, decided it “made the pages all swirly,” so he tried to convince Mr. Cotton’s  _ parrot  _ to read the words for him - without much success, of course. Gibbs deemed it best to keep that particular story to himself, though.    
  
“Voltaire!” Carina exclaimed, pulling out a tome of  _ Le Micromégas, _ eying the smooth cover with great admiration. “It’s his latest work! I can’t believe Jack has it.”    
“It’s one of his favorites too,” the Quartermaster supplied, Jack singing praises for the plot coming to mind, though Gibbs himself failed to see the appeal of a story about a dweller from a different planet ranting about earth’s politics.    
“Do you think he’d mind if I borrowed-” Carina started, unable to contain her excitement, when Elizabeth cleared her throat, her eyes shifting pointedly towards the unconscious Captain, reminding her daughter-in-law she had a job to do.   
“Right.” Carina nodded, sliding the book back on the shelf, and returned to the task at hand.

She began scouring the whole cabin, rifling through every drawer and cabinet that happened to be unlocked, but she only managed to find oddly-shaped figurines, exotic pieces of jewelry, foreign-looking coins and a whole lot of clutter, the objects’ carrying more sentimental value than actual worth. Apparently, Gibbs was right - Jack did like hoarding souvenirs, and if he couldn’t stick one in his hair, he’d discard it straight into the pile of forgotten  _ effects, _ never to see the light of day again.

Huffing in frustration, Carina let her hands fall to her sides.    
“Where the hell does he keep his clothes?!” When her gaze met four pairs of unblinking eyes, an unsettling thought came to her mind. “He does have a spare shirt...  _ right?” _ She didn’t even want to think about the breeches.    
“I can’t vouch for that,” Gibbs replied, shrugging helplessly. Pirates weren’t exactly known for their personal hygiene, and although Jack strived to be as “presentable” as he could - especially when the Pearl made port in Tortuga - he was decidedly loyal to the clothes on his back, rarely seen in a different set of garments. Carina rolled her eyes.    
“Oh, god.” It appeared that it was easier to find an undead monkey on that bloody ship than a clean rag. 

“How about that chest, under the desk,” Henry suggested, pointing at the mahogany trunk, peeking shyly from the shadows of the confined space it was cramped in, easy to miss from Carina’s vantage point. 

Wordlessly, she leaned down and grabbed the gold-plated handle, pulling the chest forward, a bit surprised to discover a large black hat, adorned with blue ostrich feathers, resting on top of it.    
Her eyes instinctively darted over to Jack as she struggled to imagine him wearing the old raggedy thing on his head, completely unaware of the awkward side-glances exchanged by her inlaws.   
“Well, that certainly is… an interesting fashion choice, even for Jack,” she commented, a faint smirk tugging at her lips.    
“That’s... not the C’ptain’s hat,” Gibbs said, his tone oddly low, guarded, as if he was struggling to find the right words.   
“It belonged to your father,” Elizabeth added quietly, taking it upon herself to reveal the truth.

Carina’s smile faded instantly. She gingerly picked up the hat and inspected it with newfound interest, her thumb slowly tracing the worn-out brim. Intimidating, damaged, yet pompous and proud, the battered chapeau perfectly reflected the spirit of its late owner. She was lost for words, reluctant to delve any further into her father’s past, dark and violent as it was. Hector Barbossa might have been a heartless scoundrel for most of his life, but he died a good man, and that was how she wanted to remember him.

“I’m surprised Jack hasn’t thrown it overboard the moment he got the Pearl back,” she finally said, well aware that the relationship between the two pirates had always been…  _ complicated _ to say the least.   
“Hard t’ tell why Jack does what he does,” Gibbs replied, “but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind ye keepin’ it.”    
Carina nodded gratefully, placing the hat on the desk to retrieve it later, then shifted her focus back on the chest and swiftly opened it, hoping to find a decent replacement for a bandage inside it. 

She was relieved to see it did contain a pile of crumpled rags, shawls, and bandanas, made out of various fabrics from all corners of the globe - from Bengal cotton and Irish linen to Persian cashmere and Far East silk - their rich, vibrant patterns making her head swim.   
“This will do,” she muttered to herself, pulling out a strip of pale-blue cloth that was long enough to wrap around her patient’s shoulder. 

A soft groan escaped Jack’s throat as he was becoming more and more restless, tossing and turning in his bed, head rolling from side to side. As she perched on the edge of the cot, Carina reached out to uncover the dressing over his wound when his right hand flailed wildly, swatting hers away, while he mumbled something about-

_ A wicked wench? _

“That’s not a nice way to call a lady who’s keeping your rump alive,” she quipped, though worry never left her face. She wasn’t going to hold a delirious man accountable for the fevered ramblings coming out of his mouth, but she needed to calm him down somehow in order to proceed with her administrations.

“Stop... no… me wench...” Jack continued to moan weakly, cold shivers rippling through his body, breaths becoming alarmingly erratic.   
“Jack, it’s alright, I’m not going to hurt you,” Carina soothed, but the pirate wouldn’t listen, couldn’t even  _ hear _ her, lost in the grips of a high fever.   
“...‘s burnin’...”   
“I know it hurts,” she murmured in a placating tone, noticing that the inflammation on his shoulder was spreading wider, past the edges of the bandage, “so you need to let me help you.”    
She placed her hand on his arm in a gesture of comfort, but he jerked it away with a grunt, as if her touch scorched his skin.    
“...down… goes down…”  
“Jack!” Carina raised her voice in an effort to get through to him, but it was to no avail.

All of a sudden, the Captain arched his back and threw his body to the side, almost falling off the bed in the process. Carina managed to catch him in time, thankfully, but he struggled against her embrace, writhing around like a shored fish trying desperately to slither its way back into the water.    
“Let go… I need to go!” He growled angrily, and it was only due to his weakened state that she was able to keep him in place.    
“A little help here!” Carina called out to the others, prompting them to rush to her aid.

While Henry and Will were busy restraining the pirate’s legs, Elizabeth pressed her palms against his good shoulder, forcing him to lie back down. Sadly, their intervention only seemed to agitate Jack more as he began thrashing around violently, his body twisting and stretching to the point of making his veins bulge. The Turners had to put in the work to hold him down, Jack proving to be a handful even when he was only semi-conscious. Gibbs wasn’t idle either, crouching by the bed and swiftly peeling off his bandage, allowing Carina to clear the infected gash and wrap a fresh cloth around it. It wasn’t an easy task, with Jack fighting them all the way through, but they eventually managed to change the dressing successfully.  
“...stop it... wicked… wicked wench...” Jack breathed every word out with difficulty, drawing big gulps of air in between them, but that didn’t hamper his resolve to free himself from their hold on him.  
“The Wicked Wench,” Gibbs murmured to himself as a realization hit him. He had heard the name before, knew the story well…  
“He’s lucky I have such a nice bedside manner,” Carina deadpanned, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead with the back of her hand.  
“It’s not _ye_ he’s callin’ out to,” the old seadog informed her in a solemn tone, “it be his _ship!”_ _  
_“His ship?” Henry echoed, still wrestling with Jack’s lower limbs, the momentary distraction earning him a swift kick to the chin.  
“Aye,” Gibbs confirmed, but there was no time to elaborate on that particular part of Jack’s past, as the man’s stubborn attempts to wriggle out of his bed continued. They needed to find a way to get him under control before he hurt himself in his feverish frenzy, and they needed to do it soon. 

“Let him go,” Gibbs suddenly commanded, his tone decisive and firm, leaving no room for argument. Despite their reservations, the Turners obliged and released the unruly buccaneer. As soon as he felt a modicum of freedom, Jack bolted upright and made a run for it, only to crash straight into his Quartermaster’s arms.   
“Jack, can ye hear me?” 

A pair of dark eyes fluttered open, dazed and unfocused, wide yet unseeing, completely detached from reality. His body trembled with each shaky breath, his mind stuck in a different place, at a different time, reliving a nightmare he couldn’t get out of.    
“Jack, listen to me-”    
“C’ptain…,” the injured man mumbled, and for a brief moment Gibbs thought his friend was back to his old self, but then he launched himself forward, trying to escape again, denied once more by his comrade’s iron grip. “C’ptain goes down with t’ ship!”

If a heart could truly shatter into a million pieces, Gibbs would need a sweeper right there and then, but that was not the time to get sentimental.    
“Yer  _ here, _ Jack, on t’ Pearl, the Black Pear!”   
The Captain blinked twice, a spark of recognition ignited in his eyes, but it was still faint, fleeting, in desperate need to be fanned and upheld before it disappeared again.    
“Me Pearl?” He asked weakly, closer to the surface of awareness, but still doubtful.   
“Can’t ye hear ‘er?” Gibbs pleaded, hoping he would finally understand. “Listen to ’er!”

Closing his eyes, Jack mustered the little energy he had left to focus on the familiar sounds of his ship - the creaking of the floorboards, the fluttering of the sails battling the wind, the dulled rattling of the capstan - and just like that, he was calm again, a faint smile curling at his lips.    
“Aye, I can hear her now,” he whispered, slumping into the Quartermaster’s embrace, drifting back into the depths of unconsciousness. 

He eased him back down onto the bed and studied him for a moment, relieved to see Jack’s breathing was becoming steadier. A tense silence befell the room, broken finally by a booming “Land, Ho!” coming from behind the closed door.   
“Mother's love!” Gibbs exclaimed, only then realizing how much time must have passed if they had already reached their destination. 

The old filibuster bolted out of the cabin onto the main deck, and ran up to the rail, with the Turners right at his heels. Peering ahead, he squinted slightly as his eyes adjusted to the darkness of the night. There it was, just a few miles away, a dark, uncharted land, so mysterious that even its name warned off unwelcomed travelers.

_ The Wildlands.  _


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 8

Immediately upon reaching the shore, it was apparent why the name Wildlands had been given to that particular spit of land - a rocky beach, an equally rocky mountain looming in the distance and an overgrown jungle filling everything in-between. It looked haunted in the pale moonlight shining from above, a truly nightmarish sight with the forest black as hell itself and the silvery rocks on both ends of it. Gibbs had never been here before, a place so secret even the unofficial First Mate hadn’t been privy to its location, but he had heard enough stories to know they were in the right spot. 

“Get the Capt’n out an’ let’s get movin’ ye sea rats!” He ordered sharply, watching as most of their crew spilled onto land from a few cockboats. Only a handful of them remained on the Pearl and the Dutchman, enough to keep watch and make sure the ships wouldn’t sink due to some unforeseen events. The rest, including the full Turner family, had come ashore, Mr. Cotton and his parrot as well, the bird taking off with a happy squeak and making for the nearest palm tree. 

“Looks normal enough,” Ragetti pointed out, glancing around fearfully, with Pintel at his side.   
“It’s just the coast,” Will observed, walking next to them, his gaze stuck in the treeline. Elizabeth joined him.   
“Do you see anything?”   
“There’s magic in this forest… as old as the sea. As difficult to command,” he said, his tone far-away. He stared at the jungle for a bit longer, and Gibbs could swear the lad still possessed most of his Ferryman’s qualities. It was a thing easy to notice, too, seeing as their combined crews were now standing around, dumbly watching Will peering at the trees. Even Bootstrap, usually stoic with years of servitude under his belt, seemed to start getting a bit twitchy.

Thankfully, before any kind of panic could start, Will decided to turn back around, a small smile on his lips, curiously encouraging.   
“Come, these lands have many secrets, and we are not here to discover them.”   
“Aye,” Gibbs agreed readily, signaling for his men to hoist Jack up, a dead weight wrapped in black canvas. “Let’s move, boys!” 

-&-

It took them almost an hour of walking down a narrow but well-maintained path, before there was any sign of life other than wild animals crossing in front of them. The men had some time to settle their nerves in the absence of any weird occurrences, and so, when a small boy suddenly jumped in front of them, their shocked screech must have been heard all the way back on the Pearl. 

The kid was no older than ten, a wiry, dark-skinned whelp dressed in some tribal wear that gave him a rather serious appearance, and they all held their breath when he aimed his bow at Gibbs. The Quartermaster raised his hands, hoping to appear unthreatening, side-eyeing Will, who had been walking alongside him at the front of their group. The Captain of the Dutchman smiled, then took a step forward.   
“We mean no harm,” he said, getting down on one knee and bowing. “Our friend is hurt,” he explained, pointing to the black sail stretched between the Pearl’s crew. “He needs help. Can you take us to your people?”

The kid looked between him and Gibbs before he stepped forward, bow still raised and aimed at the Quartermaster. He moved swiftly between the pirates, changing his target as he went, making sure there was always someone to shoot if he needed to let the arrow loose. Once he reached their cargo, however, the weapon was lowered hastily.

The boy leaned over the edge of the canvas, grabbing one of Jack’s hands - his good one, thankfully - raising it and staring at the sparrow tattoo. After a moment of silent contemplation, he let the arm go, stepping back quickly, giving a shrill whistle as he went. Before any of them could really comprehend what was happening, a dozen more kids scrambled out of the bushes near their path, all dressed in a similar fashion, brandishing bows and pointing them at various pirate heads. The boy, however, waved his fingers in the air, and the weapons were lowered. There was a relieved sigh coming from somewhere behind him, and Gibbs could picture Ragetti and Pintel deflating a little, a sentiment undoubtedly shared with the rest of their crews. 

The boy walked up to him, took his hand and tugged him forward wordlessly. Nodding to the men, the Quartermaster bid them to follow. 

-&-

Even escorted by their unexpected entourage, it took them another half an hour to get to a surprisingly big village tucked away near a stream. It was surrounded by a rocky side of the mountain on one end, shielded by the jungle on the other, and in the middle of it, among various wooden houses, a spacious clearing had been created, three or four bonfires burning merrily here and there. There were a lot more people here, too, some dancing, some eating, some chatting merrily. They had all fallen silent when the pirates stepped in, numerous pairs of curious eyes focusing on them, razor-sharp in the near darkness encompassing them. 

“Easy boys,” Will said to his men, his voice commanding. The villagers, most of them dark of skin, scantily clad and with long hair, came closer slowly. One or two muttered something to each other, but they all kept their distance, watching them warily. All except for an older gentleman, who stepped right to the black sail, peeking inside. As soon as he had spotted Jack’s prone body, he turned around and shouted, loud enough that his words ricocheted with an echo.   
“Captain Jack!” He screamed, waving his hands, “Captain Jack’s hurt!” 

Suddenly, all hell broke loose. 

The villagers - so far timid and curious - now became bold, walking forward, getting _between_ them, hands reaching and fingers grasping.   
“Steady! They won’t harm you,” Will reminded their men, who started to look green enough for it to be noticeable even in the firelight. Pintel looked ready to bolt, half-hiding behind an equally scared Ragetti, while Scrum didn’t know whether he wanted to run away or draw his sword and defend their dying Captain.   
“Calm now, boys!” Gibbs added for good measure, watching as the villagers took their cargo from them, with no little struggle from Harper. The lad appeared as if he wanted to fight, so it was a blessing when Carina grabbed a hold of him and wrapped him in her arms, pulling him back safely. 

“Come, come!” One of the village people beckoned, waving them over to the nearest bonfire, while a couple of others carried Jack to another one, placing him gently on the ground. The sail had been flattened out, then stepped on as a few others joined them, kneeling next to their unconscious Captain. They poked and prodded, lifting the bandage gently, before they unwrapped it altogether. The bloodied linen was discarded, the wound examined, and soon, a whole group of villagers was bending over Jack, running their hands over his chest and arms, skittering down his legs. 

From a distance, it looked almost as if they were washing him without water, and Gibbs couldn’t tear his eyes away from them. So far, he had only heard stories about this particular tribe of healers, but to observe it in person gave him a curious thrill. It was almost as if the place itself was filled with magic so powerful it was seeping into their very bones, connecting them to the proceedings. Surprised at his own thoughts, he glanced at his crew, noticing them in much the same state, if a bit more open-mouthed and wide-eyed.   
“He be in good hands now,” an older woman said from the vicinity of his elbow, smiling toothily, then gestured for them to sit down. Reluctantly, they followed her unspoken advice, still observing the Captain with amazement. 

The group doctoring on Jack seemed to vibrate, bobbing in a strange sort of dance, disrobing him completely, before a few women joined them, their hands loaded with some sort of a thin, gauzy fabric, which they started to wrap around Jack’s legs and hips. They twisted it around his chest loosely, then focused on his injured shoulder, binding it tightly. A few kids appeared, carrying ceramic jars and jugs, only for the women to take them and splash the contents onto their Captain, soaking the material thoroughly. 

Thus prepared - for what, Gibbs couldn’t comprehend - they lifted him and carried him away to one of the nearby huts, singing in hushed voices, Jack’s body raised high above their heads. It looked like the strangest procession in the world, a haunting image distinctly resembling a painting he had once seen, and the Quartermaster tried not to let his insides squeeze in worry. The painting had been that of the entombment of Christ, after all. 

Gibbs shook his head decidedly. _They were going to help,_ he told himself firmly, then dragged his gaze back to the old woman. She levelled him with an inquisitive stare, the likes of which one would expect from an Admiral of the Navy, not a little grandma halfway to her grave, and the Quartermaster shivered.   
“Who be you?” She asked, and Gibbs knew that they had to somehow summarize the events of the past three days. However, looking at the woman, taking in her braided hair with various trinkets sticking out and what was undoubtedly a _snake_ skin wrapped around her chest like an armor, Gibbs found himself at a loss of words. 

“We are Jack’s friends,” Will, bless him, stepped in, coming closer and giving a curt bow again.  
“William Turner,” the woman mused, turning her eyes to him. If the fact that she knew his name shocked him, Will didn’t show it. “You be Jack’s friend, too?”   
“Yes ma’am,” he confirmed earnestly. “Jack’s been shot by a horrible man, he expressed his wish to get here, so we did what we could to come as quickly as possible.” 

As explanations went, Gibbs had to admit that this brief version had been quite good. The woman squinted her eyes, staring first at Will, then at the Quartermaster again. She peeked behind them, undoubtedly taking in the rest of their - rather frightened - piratical band, then turned to address her own people.  
“They be Jack’s friends!” She shouted, and Gibbs couldn’t help the feeling that something had just been decided, and that the decision had been, thankfully, in their favor. The whole tribe erupted in cheers unexpectedly, loud, high-pitched screams piercing through the night and scaring the crews half to death. 

Pintel and Ragetti squeaked and backed away until their progress was stopped by Scrum, quite rooted to the spot. Bootstrap, so far keeping to the tail of their group, moved forward, muttering a few calming words to his men - words that got lost in the loud cheering around them. He walked up to the old lady, bowing deep, earning himself a wide grin full of teeth.   
“Bill The Dead…” She said lazily, reaching out and running her fingers over the side of his face. He smiled.   
“Bill The Living,” he answered, to which she gave a short nod. It was clear to everyone that there was more to those two than could be seen, but nobody dared to bring it up. 

“Let us eat an’ dance!” She declared after a moment, addressing the lot of them. “Yer Captain be alive still, an’ alive he shall remain, as will ye! Come!” She beckoned, which had apparently been some kind of an approval signal to the rest of her people, for numerous hands tugged them forward, seating them around bonfires, pushing bowls of food into their hands and placing jars filled with dark liquid at their feet. Scrum eyed one of such jars, leaning forward and sniffing carefully, before his eyes crossed in surprise. 

“Rum!” He exclaimed happily, lifting it and taking a careful sip. It was good, much sweeter than the brands made for sale around the Caribbean, aged and rich in taste. He drank a few mouthfuls, humming merrily, a few others joining him. Ragetti eyed his rum and bowl of food with distrust, poking carefully at something that looked like meat with one scrawny finger sticking out of it.   
“Don’t worry boys,” Bootstrap commented, standing behind them. “They’re Jack’s people, they wouldn’t hurt his friends.” And he moved to another bonfire, sitting down next to Gibbs, Elizabeth following close by, Carina and Henry at her heels. 

“Jack’s people?” Will’s wife asked, her eyebrows arching. Bootstrap nodded solemnly, getting comfortable on a stretch of sand wedged between patches of short grass. The others joined him, sitting down around the fire, and soon, bowls of food landed in their hands, the villagers more than happy to express their hospitality.   
“Aye… has he never told you?” Bill looked around them, surprised, pausing on Gibbs, when the Quartermaster nodded.   
“He did tell me,” he confirmed, “but I don’ think Jack went ‘round tutting ‘is own horn to everyone.” 

That comment earned him a loud snort from Will and Elizabeth both, and Bill leveled them with a sharp stare, looking for all the world like a father scolding his wayward children. Will cleared his throat and attempted to calm down, but Elizabeth looked up defiantly, amusement curling her lips up.   
“Oh please… have you met Jack?” She asked, scoffing. “He’s as proud as a peacock, always ruffling his feathers and making sure _everyone_ knows his name. If he isn’t tutting his own horn, it’s probably because he’s too drunk to find the right end of it.” She summed up with a laugh, and Bill frowned.   
“He saved all of them, y’know…” He mused quietly, dragging his eyes from one villager to another. Their little circle fell silent, and then-   
“Horseshit!” Henry exclaimed, unbelieving, receiving a glare from his father.   
“Nay,” Gibbs piped in, tilting his head. “T’is be the truth! All t’ people ‘round ye… he saved ‘em all.” 

They surveyed the crowd around them, the elders and the youngsters, men and women, gazes jumping from one individual to another.   
“But… how?” Carina asked in open-eyed wonder. She was twisted to the side, watching as three tribal girls, rather disrobed, danced around a very blushing Harper. Gibbs let the merriment go for a longer moment, but when one of them started to play with the lad’s hair, lifting and turning his blonde locks with quiet amazement, he decided to intervene and called him over.   
“Come on,” he encouraged, patting the space next to him. “Sit with us, eat somethin’. And don’t ye go eyeing those girls now, boy.” Gibbs advised sternly, knowing well that Harper was decidedly too young still to be left to his own devices, especially with such a _chirpy_ company. 

“Jack used to be a merchant,” Bill picked the story up, guzzling some of the rum from his jar. “He sailed for a time with the East India Company…”   
“A merchant?” Henry asked, befuddled, shaking his head. “Why would he turn to piracy?”   
“He was deceived by Beckett,” Gibbs supplied gravely. “Beckett wanted ‘im to ship cargo, which turned out to be slaves… An’ Jack would never do that.”   
“So…” Elizabeth murmured, glancing around. “All of them…”   
“Aye.” Bill nodded solemnly. “All of ‘em. A hundred souls aboard t’ Wicked Wench.”   
“The Wicked Wench?” Harper leaned forward, the bowl of food forgotten in his lap. “I heard the Captain muttering something about her once, but I didn’t know what he meant…”   
“The Black Pearl, lad,” Bootstrap explained, smiling. “She used t’ be called t’ Wicked Wench when he was sailin’ for the Company. He repainted an’ renamed her.”

The Turnes recalled Jack’s recent feverish ramblings, disregarded at the time in the chaos of trying to stop him from bolting out of his bed. They hadn’t had the chance to ask Gibbs for more details since then, but the idea of painting the whole ship black and changing its name for no good reason seemed somewhat ridiculous.  
“Jack’s brand of crazy…” Carina summed up, shaking her head. The Quartermaster harrumphed, and Bill scoffed.   
“Don’ ye be so hasty, young missy,” he admonished. “When Jack realized tha’ Beckett wanted ‘im to transport slaves, he came up with a plan. He let ‘em go on an abandoned little island, keepin’ ‘em well hidden from the Company. Beckett didn’ like it one bit, so he imprisoned yer Captain and branded him as pirate.”   
As Bootstrap went on, Harper almost crawled over Gibbs in order to hear every single word of the tale. The kid had a bit of a hero-worship problem going on, but the Quartermaster didn’t mind, moving his legs out of the way when the whelp got closer, allowing him to sit right next to Bill. 

“He took Jack t’ the shore and fired a volley at t’ Wicked Wench, settin’ her on fire jus’ so he could humiliate Jack. But, as bull-headed as ‘e was back then, Jack fought ‘is way through t’ guards and jumped into water, hopin’ to save his beloved ship.”   
“Oh god,” Elizabeth breathed out, one hand coming up to cover her mouth, eyes wide with shock.   
“T’ Wench was all ablaze by then, an’ one of t’ fallin’ yards trapped Jack’s arm.”   
“The scar…” Elizabeth whispered again, horror evident on her face. Will regarded her with a curious look, silently asking for an explanation. “When he showed me his scars on that island Barbossa marooned us on, he said something about good deeds when he talked about this burnmark on his left arm,” she said, touching her own forearm and indicating the place. Gibbs nodded.   
“Aye…”   
“And the bullet wounds!” She added after a moment.   
“T’ guards were not idle, ‘Lizabeth,” Bill added sadly.   
“Oh lord…”   
“What happened to him?” Harper asked, voice low, and Gibbs felt sorry for the way his mouth seemed to tremble.   
“He died, kid.” 

The silence that fell about them then was so oppressing that even the cheers from around their bonfire weren’t enough to break it. Like a mist, it weaved between them, chilling them to the bone, rendering Harper’s already big eyes even wider, wetness glimmering at the corners. 

“Tha’s yer Captain, boy,” Bill said finally, reaching out and giving the lad’s nose a quick flick. It broke Harper out of that tearful state, and he sniffled once, settling back down on his haunches.   
“He made a deal wit’ Davy Jones when he was dyin,” Gibbs recalled the tale he had heard from Jack himself. “One hundred years of servitude for thirteen years of captaincy.”   
“An’ Jones brought t’ Wench back.” Bootstrap nodded along. “Charred and destroyed. He restored ‘er to ‘er former glory an’ Jack painted ‘er black as a memento. Ye know t’ rest of it.” 

And they did, either through stories or through their direct involvement with the mad pirate Captain. They sat there silently, contemplating the quietly heroic man, until Henry finally found his voice and raised his jar.   
“To Jack!” He toasted, and the others joined in, with Harper being the loudest. 

In the meantime, the rest of the pirates were becoming quite acquainted with the tribe, making merry with generous offerings of food and drink. Scrum had finally overcome his cautiousness towards the villagers, and was now comfortably sprawled between the long legs of a giggling lass, his head cushioned on her belly, hands flying wildly as he told her a story of a sea-monster they had encountered north of Tripoli once. She laughed and smacked him on his shoulder, passing him more rum, and from the beatific smile on his face, one could easily see he was in his own personal heaven. 

The girl Scrum was so conveniently using as his personal pillow looked dangerous to boot, her hair glinting with silver arrowheads attached to her braids, undoubtedly sharp and pointy, but she acted friendly enough, keeping her hands on the pirate at all times, light and pleasant in their fleeting caress. Comfortable where he was, Scrum looked around dreamily when the most unusual sight caught his attention. 

A literal _parade_ of people - all _women_ in fact - walked by, just a few yards away from them, directing their steps to the hut the Captain had been carried off to. They were dressed in long, billowy dresses, the fabric stained dark, wrapped around them like some mythical shroud. Their legs seemed to barely move, almost floating above the ground, and between them, in the middle of their strange procession, there was a man, his gait distinctly different. Donned in a fur mantle with a black cape and a long leather skirt, he held his chin up proudly, a headpiece made of animal skulls glistening in the moonlight ominously. Frowning, Scrum let his gaze travel over the weird individual, taking in the face, painted like a ghost, and the staff he gripped tightly in his hand, adorned with even more skulls and little pieces of bones. 

The whole ensemble walked into the hut and disappeared inside, leaving an aura of mystery lingering in the air. Scrum frowned, then craned his neck and turned his head to ask the girl about the mysterious man, but she chose that very moment to move her hand _oh so softly_ over his neck and he melted back into her chest with a happy sigh.

Pintel was seated nearby, eyeing the scene with great suspicion all the while nervously elbowing Ragetti’s side.  
“‘Ave you seen tha’? He asked in a loud whisper, the tribe’s welcoming reception doing little to ease his distrust of them. As friendly as they appeared to be, they did worship the _Devil_ after all - or so he had been told once.   
“Aye,” the scrawny pirate replied meekly, then gulped when another woman approached the hut, a bunch of beheaded bats and dead toads held firmly in her grip. No sooner did she set foot in the door, than a goat dashed out of the place with a panicked bleat, only to be intercepted by two young lads and dragged back inside. The villagers’ shenanigans continued as more people came in and out of the mysterious hut, all of them carrying increasingly bizarre items - a giant elephant’s-ear plant, a jar full of teeth, a string of cow eyeballs, and…. a severed _human_ foot!

“Wha’ in seven hells is goin’ on in there?!” Pintel grumbled, barely keeping his voice hushed so that Scrum’s seductive companion wouldn’t overhear a word.   
Ragetti scratched the back of his head and side-glanced at his friend, his wooden eye almost creaking in the process.   
“M-maybe we o’ta check in on t’ C’ptain?” He suggested shyly, earning a nod of approval from Pintel.   
“Aye, ye do tha’ while I keeps watch outside. From a safe distance.”   
“I’d much rather _ye_ go in, an’ _I_ keeps watch outside!”   
“Nay, yer plan, ye go!”   
“Nay, I stays, _ye_ go!”   
Their little squabble continued for a few minutes, escalating quickly into a shoving match, until they eventually decided that they would either go together, or pretend Ragetti’s idea had never left his dumb piehole. With that in mind, they remained rooted to the spot - _‘s best to keep vigil from afar_ \- and waited for the other _foot_ to drop, so to speak.

The next few minutes proved uneventful, however, so the pirates turned their attention back to the bonfire, looking around and seeing their comrades laughing, dancing, and drinking rum blithely, their joyful hosts never leaving their side. 

“See tha’?” Pintel motioned with his head towards the festivities, his features twisted in repulsion, as if he was chomping on a green lemon. “Them crew be already bamboozled by these freaks!”

Ragetti nodded in agreement, but before he could open his mouth to provide his own commentary, young Harper strolled in and sat cross-legged right in front of him, the state of his hair causing the other man to do a double take.

Beaming with joy, the boy proudly presented an array of thin dreadlocks and braids, all adorned with colorful beads - courtesy of the locals, no doubt - making Harper resemble the object of his worship, Captain Jack. The lad directed his eager gaze at the two buccaneers, silently asking for their approval, but it was Scrum - still _horizontally reclined_ \- who spoke up first.   
“Oi, them shrank t’ C’ptain!” He quipped, lifting his head slightly to take a good look at the boy, then started laughing merrily at his own joke.   
Pintel slowly slid his palm across his face, while Ragetti hung his head with a heavy sigh.   
“If ye can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em, I guess,”

  
-&-

Lost in her thoughts, Elizabeth was sitting on a log, off to the side of the bonfire, far enough to distance herself from the group, but sufficiently close for the flames to illuminate the ground beneath her feet. She needed to be alone for a while, so that she could try to make sense of the insanity the last few days had brought, and find the strength to endure even more madness that was yet to come. With a heavy sigh, she picked up a stick from the sand and started drawing circular patterns in it absentmindedly, musing over the recent events. She thought about her home - abandoned, with no way of returning to it safely at that point - and her family, their lives turned upside-down once more. Things had been going so well for them finally, with Will’s return from his servitude as the Ferryman to the Underworld and Carina joining their little household, but, as per usual, a certain crazed pirate had to show up and stomp all over their familial bliss with his dirty boots. 

Elizabeth knew she couldn’t really blame Jack for this particular mess - he had been sent on a mission by Calypso herself, and one does not simply defy a goddess, especially when the only other alternative involves a war between two deities. Still, every time there was trouble brewing on the horizon, Captain Jack would find a way to insert himself into the situation, and somehow drag the rest of them with him.   
  
She really hoped he was going to be alright, though. A thorn in her side he might have been, but he was a good man, and Bill’s story only confirmed what she had already known. What she was _not_ aware of, however, was how much the pirate had suffered at the hands of Cutler Beckett. Jack was always so brass and carefree, that she would have never expected him to have such a dark past, not even after he had shown her his scars... 

_Don’t you dare die on us here, Jack!_

“Elizabeth, are you alright?” A familiar voice asked from behind her, and she smiled to herself knowingly. She had anticipated that it wouldn’t take her husband long to find her and try to console her.  
“Not really,” she replied quietly, shrugging. There was no point in denying it, was there?   
“What’s wrong?” Will asked, slipping next to her and wrapping his arm around her thin waist.   
“Everything’s wrong.” She took a deep breath and exhaled loudly, then, the words just tumbled out of her mouth in an uncontrolled stream of consciousness. “We’re fugitives! We can’t go back home! The soldiers saw our faces, they know who we are. There’s no turning back now-”   
She glanced at the clearing, where Carina and Henry were dancing with the locals around the bonfire, without a care in the world, as if they were oblivious to the danger looming over their heads.   
“-and the kids… I don’t think they fully understand how serious this is...” 

Will listened to his wife’s tirade patiently, knowing it was best to just let her talk, vent everything she needed to let out before she came around, as she always did.   
“I waited for such a long time for our lives to be _normal_ again,” Elizabeth continued, her eyes intense, but a bit misty. “I was so patient... and where did it get me? We’re stuck in this strange place, entangled in this stupid war between gods with magical spears and… and Jack…. Jack is…”   
“Alive still,” Will pointed out, then frowned slightly. “I think….”   
“What if he doesn’t make it?” Her voice was small now, barely above a whisper.   
“Then we finish what he’d started,” Will replied, his tone determined. “It’s the right thing to do, you know that.”   
She nodded her head, albeit reluctantly, and Will lifted her chin with his finger before his palm curved against her cheek.   
“Whatever happens, we’ll always have each other,” he told her, holding her gaze with his own, then kissed her deeply, setting her at ease once more.

Elizabeth had to admit, her husband had a unique talent for always saying the very thing she needed to hear. He also knew how to remind her of what was really important in life - what really _mattered_ \- with very few words, letting his heart do most of the talking. They all needed to be strong in this time of crisis, as the only way to survive is to stay together. 

After their lips had finally parted, Will stood up and extended his hand to her, which she gladly took.  
“Come on, let’s get back before Gibbs arranges a search party,” he quipped, pulling Elizabeth to her feet. She rolled her eyes, but a smile reached them nonetheless.   
“Pirates,” she muttered under her breath, faking exasperation.   
“Aye, and yer their _King!”_ He replied, putting on his best swashbuckling accent, before the two made their way back to the clearing and joined the rest of their crew.   
  


-&-

It was almost morning, and even though the sun was not up yet, its pinkish glow was enough to remind them all that they should get some sleep at last. Well… most of their joined crews had done just that, splayed out on the ground, snoring here and there, while only a handful persisted, most notably the Turners, Harper, and - of course - Gibbs. The Quartermaster was still elbows-deep in a story he had started approximately two hours earlier, the longish tale consisting of mermaids, seals and one prickly porcupine. Elizabeth was listening avidly, propped up against a half-conscious Will. Carina was nodding off slowly, and Henry kept on drinking from his jar with one hand, cradling his wife close with the other. Harper looked ready to collapse, but his ears still perked up every time he heard the Captain’s name, so Gibbs went on with his story, leaning forward, careful of the plate of meaty bits balanced on his knee. 

“An’ then, Jack grabbed t’ damned porcupine and climbed t’ rock, goin’ to t’ very top of it-”  
“Hold on!” Carina raised her head from where it was resting on Will’s shoulder, then blinked blearily at the Quartermaster. “You’ve said they have quills… those… pointy… _things,”_ she mumbled, clearly still under the influence of the rum she had polished off a bit earlier. Gibbs opened his mouth to respond, but nothing came to his mind, so he closed it again. Henry piped in.   
“Not to mention, how would he _climb the rock_ with a wriggly, spiky animal in his hands…”   
_“I put it in me pocket, lad,”_ a voice sounded behind them, the unmistakable grin echoed in every syllable. “In me very own pants.” 

Six heads whipped around, eyes widening when they took in the owner of the voice. Jack - for it was undoubtedly him - was standing at the entrance of the hut, his dreadlocked hair tied back high, trinkets shining as if freshly polished, a smiling village girl under each arm. He flashed his distinctive grin, swayed a little, then moved forward, unhooking his hands from around his escort, and making his way to the remains of the bonfire. He only had his breeches on, his chest left bare, and Elizabeth couldn’t take her eyes off him, amazed at the speedy recovery. 

Jack didn’t even take five steps before a bunch of children ran up to him, jumping on him in their enthusiasm, and in a blink of an eye, the Captain looked like a living christmas tree, laughing kids hanging off him, immobilizing him temporarily. He hugged each of them, setting them down firmly, then knelt down when one of them approached with a bowl. As his crew watched with silent fascination, the boy dipped his fingers in the bowl, scooped up some kind of a red liquid, then smeared it across Jack’s chest, leaving bloody marks over his tattoos. They looked like strange pagan signs, and the others chose to ignore them - all except for Elizabeth and Carina, who observed every detail with wide-eyed wonder. 

When Jack finally freed himself from the onslaught of the little ones, he circled the dying bonfire, peeking into the various bowls and plates of mostly-eaten food. He stole a few bites here and there, before he grabbed a whole bowl from the ground, sniffed it curiously, then discarded it hurriedly with a displeased wince.   
“Jack! You’re well!” Elizabeth finally seemed to remember her voice, although it was weak with shock. It was clear that he had been seriously wounded - there was a rather impressive scar on his left shoulder, completely healed but pinkish and delicate - yet, his casual demeanor was a far cry from the comatose state he had been in just a few hours prior. 

Noticing her gaze, the Captain smiled, bowing, the beads in his hair swaying left and right from where they were held tightly together. He looked like an astonishing mixture of a pagan deity and a French gentleman, and Elizabeth, along with the rest of her family, couldn’t stop gawking at him. 

Harper wasn’t any better, his big eyes shining, mouth agape. Jack plopped down next to him, sending him a quick smile, one hand reaching up to ruffle the kid’s hair affectionately, but he paused, taking in the freshly acquired braids and dreadlocks. There was a piece of bone - probably deer - attached to one of them, and another was tied off with a thin leather strip, its color a beautiful, rich red. Jack hummed thoughtfully, tugging on it, then grinned at Harper. 

“You look like a proper pirate now, mate,” he observed, watching as the lad beamed, his eyes positively glowing with happiness. “This one needs something, though…” the Captain mused, picking another braid, a lot shorter than the others. He had a good idea of where half of its length had gone to, and he rolled his eyes when one of the girls came over, her own black hair adorned with a lock of a decidedly lighter color. She had a steaming bowl in her hand, though, and Harper didn’t look too upset at the exchange that must have taken place, so he let it rest. 

“Lusee, darling,” he said instead, smiling sweetly at the girl, taking the bowl that she offered him.   
“Yes, Jackie?” She answered, one hand going to the Captain’s chin, fingers tickling over the braided beard.   
“Don’t ye happen to have those nice colorful feathers still? I think the boy needs some more shine.” He pointed at the short tress, and she winked cheekily, then walked back into the hut. 

“Jack!” Gibbs gasped out, sounding almost as if he had been holding his breath through the whole time, and Jack side-eyed him, startled, tilting his head back a little.   
“Josh?”   
“Yer alright!” The Quartermaster exclaimed, and Jack blinked at him.   
“Yes, we’ve established that already…” he paused, frowning, looking around. All of his companions - those that were still awake, that is - stared at him with wide eyes.   
“But…” Carina squeaked. “How?”   
“Ah! You’ve forgotten something very important, luv… _I’m Captain Jack Sparrow!_ ‘Tis not easy to kill me!”   
“Could have fooled us,” Will commented snidely, but he was smiling, and Jack shrugged.   
“...I might have had a wee bit of help,” he muttered, glancing at Lusee, who - having returned with a glaringly blue feather - knelt down and proceeded to tie it into Harper’s short braid.   
“Thank t’ gods fer that!” Gibbs added, grinning, then searched around them for some more rum.

Once he had found a decently filled jar, he handed it to Jack, who took it with a happy sigh, guzzling down half of its contents in a few quick swallows. Rubbing the remaining wetness off his lips with his wrist, Jack hummed contentedly, then tucked into his steaming bowl. 

“What now?” Henry asked, raising his eyebrows inquiringly. Harper giggled at something Lusee said, and everyone ignored him. Jack shrugged.   
“We need to go to Iceland… I take it B... Bir… Ber… that Barnacle bloke is chasing us?”   
_“Bernstein,”_ Carina said, rolling her eyes. “And yes, he is on our tail probably.”   
“Probably?!” Jack jerked his head up. “What, ye haven’t checked?”   
“We had more pressing matters on our hands,” Elizabeth reminded him pointedly, clearing her throat. Jack frowned.   
“Oh.” Then he remembered something. “How on earth did ye know where to go?”   
“Ah, this tribe had snached the dying out of my hands all the time,” Will said, smirking. “Bad business for a ferryman.”   
“Good business for the dying,” Jack countered, getting back to his food. Gibbs shifted next to him.   
“So… Iceland. What about Bernstein?”   
“We need to lose him…” the Captain muttered, munching on a piece of meat, then raised the bowl and slurped out most of its contents. “Probably all of his toy ships are out looking for us.”   
“What do we do?” Carina asked, scratching her head, and Jack paused to think. 

If Barnacle, or what's-his-name, had indeed mobilized his Navy, they needed numbers to provide some sort of counter power. There were few pirate ships that would be both big enough and willing to go with them, probably… They needed something more organized, they needed… 

“The Brethren Court,” Jack muttered, his eyes widening. They would need to call the court and get them onboard their mission.   
“What?” Elizabeth, damn her hearing, perked up. “You want to call _them_ to fight? Are you mad?”   
“For the last time,” Jack scoffed, “I’m _not_ mad!”   
“...right. You just want to call a bunch of selfish, self-serving, egotistical pirates to action.” She looked at him skeptically. “How do you want to do that?”   
“Oh, ye know… having a pirate _King_ makes it a little bit easier,” Jack answered, leering at her, and Elizabeth huffed, crossing her arms over her chest, staring silently at him. She wished everybody had stopped reminding her of that fact. Somewhere behind them, a kid ran out of a bush just to disappear in another, the rustle of leaves the only thing following his departure. 

“Fine!” She exclaimed, throwing her hands up. “Fine! We can try that! But don’t be surprised if these petty nitwits will not be happy with the idea.”   
“No need for name-calling,” the Captain grumbled. Gibbs leaned closer.   
“Jack, is tha’ such a good idea? Ye know how they’re like…”   
“I’m having me doubts, Gibbs, trust me. But what other way is there, eh?”   
“Maybe we could try sneaking out of the Caribbean quietly…” Henry mused, and Carina nodded her approval. Jack thought about it, then shook his head.   
“We need more _arms,_ Barnacle has _a lot_ of them.” 

“Ye got us!” A small voice behind them said, and they all turned to the source, noticing one of the kids standing in the middle of the clearing, villagers slowly gathering behind him. Ten, fifteen, twenty… the numbers grew. Jack watched them with a small, private smile, before his expression soured again.   
“‘Tis all fine and well, but we need _ships!”_   
“We could commandeer a couple!” Henry answered, and Will scowled at him, quickly rendering him silent.   
“Well…” Jack started, picking the last few bits of meat from his bowl, eating them quickly and licking his fingers. “I think we should sleep on that one,” he declared, getting up. Elizabeth shook her head.   
“You’ve slept for the better part of three days!”   
“I was _healing,”_ Jack pointed out, raising one finger imploringly in the air. “Different thing, luv. ‘Sides, you lot look like ye could do with some beauty sleep yerselves.” 

He made to walk away, his mind set on a very comfortable bed he had sneaked a glimpse at while getting out of the hut, when a melody reached his ears. He halted, frozen to the spot, listening helplessly as the sound started to rise. He knew the song, knew it much better than the rest of his crew, the haunting tone of it vibrating through the air and rocks, carrying through sand and sea alike. 

“What’s going on?” Will asked, his eyes wide. He was standing up, too, looking around with a suspicious expression. Jack turned back to him, noting that Gibbs was listening avidly to the melody. Soon enough, the Quartermaster eyed him curiously.   
“Those be the villagers, aye?” He asked and, after Jack’s nod, continued, albeit rather cautiously. “And they be singing, aye?” Another nod. _“What_ be they singing?”   
“Oh nothin’...” Jack muttered. “Just an old pirate chanty…”   
“Oh god,” Elizabeth breathed, levering herself up, her eyes falling shut. “I can _feel_ it…” she whispered in wonder. “It’s the Court, isn’t it? They’re calling the pirate lords!” 

Jack closed his eyes, too, counted to ten, then opened them again. He had only been _talking,_ for Calypso’s sake! They were only _making plans!_ And he had just been _thinking out loud!_ Why did those infernal kids never _behave!?_

_Well, bugger._ The Brethren Court it was, then.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 9

With winds in their sails and a few favorable currents under their keels, the Pearl and the Dutchman made their way swiftly through the Caribbean. The days were surprisingly uneventful, filled with careful tacking and lazy reefing. The world seemed to turn at a steady pace, and everything could be considered  _ just fine, _ if not for one minor detail. 

“Is ‘e alright?” Marty asked, his gaze stuck to their Captain. Gibbs thought about the answer, opened his mouth, reconsidered, and closed it again. Ragetti shrugged.    
“Guess ‘e missed ‘er,” he muttered, staring at Jack. 

The Captain of the Black Pearl was a few yards away from them, bent over the taffrails, a bottle of rum clenched tightly in one hand, the fingers of the other running reverently over the smooth wood. He muttered something under his nose, leaned in, then placed a soft kiss to the surface. Gibbs frowned, observing the scene. Pintel nodded solemnly.   
“Definitely missed ‘er,” he agreed.

Jack seemed to be in another world, talking softly to his beloved Pearl, almost as if he was unaware of the numerous pairs of eyes focused on him. Even the Turners were staring, watching the proceedings avidly from their own ship, curious gazes palpable even from a distance. 

“It’s alright, darling,” Jack soothed, dragging his fingertips over the wood, nails scratching gently along a line tied to the belaying pin. The ship creaked, and he smiled, tipping the bottle over and splashing a few gulps worth of rum on the quarterdeck. “Drink up, luv,” he said, grinning, then twirled around, his movements a mix of sluggishly-drunk and unexpectedly focused. He eyed the mainmast with a thoughtful look on his face, then skipped over to it, placing his hand reverently on the wood. The ship was silent, but the sails ruffled a bit, the blocks squeaked softly, and Jack frowned, leaning back.    
“Now, why would I do that?” He asked, somehow managing to sound lucid while being anything but, and, as the crew watched, he first shrugged, then made a displeased face, only to pour more rum on the deck, thoroughly soaking a pile of rope lying under the mast. 

Having done that, Jack pirouetted sharply and waltzed along the rails, passed right next to a small group of villagers - they had taken all the volunteers with them, of course - then paused when his imaginary path was blocked by Gibbs and Pintel. They hadn’t moved from their spot, but Jack’s mad beelining had put them right in front of him. The Captain froze, his eyebrows raising, then seemed to remember where he was exactly.    
“What ye lookin’ at, ye sorry scoundrels?” He asked, his voice commanding. He straightened up a little - the effect of which was completely ruined due to his swaying - and Gibbs took it upon himself to explain.    
“Ye ‘ave told us to wait fer a new course, Capt’n,” he reminded him, and Jack’s whole body tilted back in surprise.    
“I did?” He looked around, the frown crawling back onto his features. Pintel and Ragetti nodded in unison. “Of course I did!” Jack exclaimed, then started patting his pockets, looking progressively more displeased. 

Before he could voice his evident worries, however, one of the villagers - a young lad named Jonesie - ran up to him quickly and gave him his magical compass.    
“Ah!” Jack exclaimed happily and took it, clapping one hand on the boy’s back in approval. “Good lad!” Then, as if nothing else had happened, he began to turn this way and that, his gaze stuck to the needle. 

Finally, after what felt like a solid five minutes of endless spinning and muttering to himself, Jack declared their new destination, swiftly jumping on the quarterdeck and taking the helm. Cotton’s parrot didn’t seem too pleased to be shooed away from the wheel, and it squeaked indignantly when it flew away, quickly finding a spot on one of the yards. Jack sneered at it, then huffed as Gibbs approached. The rest of their crew was back to their duties, hoisting and securing sheets, and Jack knew that it wouldn’t take Gibbs long to seek him out. 

“Capt’n?” The old salt inquired, and Jack tilted his head a bit, indicating his attention, even though his eyes remained focused on the horizon. The Quartermaster continued. “T’ island we’re goin’ to… ye didn’t need that compass.” He muttered, confident that all of them knew the little port they were now turned to.    
“Every Captain needs a compass, Josh,” Jack said, turning to him finally. “It’s a well established fact of life! We have ships, compasses, and a girl in every port! Well…” he paused thoughtfully. “Some of us have at least  _ five  _ of them in every port, but I can hardly be blamed for the misfortune of others-”   
“Jack,” Gibbs interrupted him pointedly. “Ye were tryin’ to find t’ course for Iceland, weren’t ye?”    
“I might have done...”   
“And…” he hesitated, then leaned in. “How did it go?” He asked, his voice low. Jack scrunched his nose and shrugged.    
“We’ll need that map still.” 

Gibbs had suspected as much. While Jack had always been very appreciative of any treasure, especially if it involved pretty trinkets and gold coins, he knew that their Captain had never been set on ruling the Caribbean, and that was essentially what the Statue meant. Jack had his ship, his rum, and his freedom - it was all he had ever wanted. 

“Don’t despair, Josh!” He said, a lot more cheerfully. “I’m confident my girl will get us there without any trouble.” Jack smiled, patting the wheel fondly. Gibbs chuckled.    
“‘S long as she’s able t’ sail in a straight line,” he muttered, only managing to make Jack frown.    
“I needed to make nice with her,” he explained.    
“...by soakin’ her in most of t’ rum we ‘ave left?” Gibbs asked, stupefied.    
“Of course! How else would I convince her that this whole ungodly escapade was a good idea?” Jack asked back, seemingly indignant.    
“Ye convince yer own ship t’ take a trip?” The Quartermaster repeated, blinking, his eyebrows raising so high they almost touched his hairline. Jack jerked his head back, surprised.    
“You mean  _ you _ don’t?” The shock in his voice was so genuine, Gibbs just sighed.    
“Full canvas, Capt’n?”   
“Aye, Mr. Gibbs.” Jack grinned widely, nodding in agreement. “Full canvas!” 

-&-

They made berth just as the sun was preparing to set, its orange glow illuminating the small port in front of them. The light made everything look fiery, and Jack squinted, standing by the rail, waiting for the crew to dock the Pearl. They made quick work of it, too, keen to get on land and spend the incoming evening in one tavern or another. 

“We sail in tomorrow at noon.” Jack gave the order, happy when it was passed on among the crew, then turned to his Quartermaster. “Mr. Gibbs, did you prepare the list?” 

A bit of shuffling and pocket-checking later, a scrap of paper was produced, and Jack read through the contents swiftly. Among the usual provisions, such as food, rum, tar, hemp, and canvas, a few odd lines had been scribbled in at his own request. Between  _ two goats _ and  _ additional blankets,  _ a black line of  _ warm clothes for all  _ glared from the cream page, and the Captain nodded in satisfaction. They would need some wardrobe change if they were to go all the way to Iceland. The list closed with an underlined inquiry for  _ even more rum, _ and Jack pushed it back into Gibbs’ hands, dragging his gaze back to his crew. 

“Marty!” He called, bidding the man to step forward. He was possibly the only person onboard, save for Gibbs and himself, who could read. “You’re on provisions. Get Pintel and Ragetti with you, and whoever else you wish. Two shillings extra for anyone who comes,” Jack promised, then dug a heavy purse out of his pocket. He handed it to Marty and shooed them all away to get ready. The Dutchman was already ahead of them, using the docks for once like every other vessel, and Jack let himself observe it from the distance. As far as unusual sights went, this one was definitely a first.

Half an hour later they were ashore, a lovely town of Red Reef welcoming them with its usual stench of dirty alleys. It was a small establishment, hardly qualifying as a proper port, but it had started to make good trade recently, consequently pushing its development further - where a few years back, only two dingy watering holes had been barely standing, at least five new taverns had sprouted, their window panes painted in bright shades, a slow but steady trickle of customers wandering in and out. 

Jack took the town in, listening to the sounds of life bustling about, before he launched himself in the direction of the nearest market square. He knew that he would hardly buy anything once the evening started for good, but browsing the stands and gaining information was just as valuable. Besides, he had men to take care of the provisions - being a Captain had its perks - so he could focus on more interesting things. 

Walking swiftly, he breezed through the market, peeking into a couple of baskets and boxes on his way, pausing only to make small talk with a few of the merchants. One of them was very adamant at selling him a boa constrictor, though Jack had no idea how that was relevant to his inquiry about a new belt, so he declined politely, relieving the man of a few trinkets when he wasn’t looking. There was another one, hard-pressed to make some kind of a deal with him, and Jack reluctantly agreed to buy a new silver ring with an emerald inside. It had a dragon on it - although the seller had sworn on his soul that it was a mermaid - and was quite nicely shaped. Jack hadn’t been fooled even for a moment, he had seen both, dragons  _ and _ mermaids, had chased the former and slept with the latter, and he put on his best smile when the man ducked under his table to look for change. It provided just enough time for a pair of swan earrings to find their way into Jack’s pocket. 

Mildly satisfied with his purchases and the benefits following them, Jack bowed low and walked on, winking at a girl who eyed him from one of the windows. She had a cat on the window sill, though, and he wasn’t surprised when she only winked back. The cat types were never good for wooing. The Captain could lure them in with adventures and they usually proved adept with a sword, but when it came to more  _ romantic _ matters, a nice redhead was what was required.  _ Just like the one walking along the street with a basket full of apples. _ Jack graced her with his best winning smile, which caused her to blush and stumble on the next step. She hurried away hastily, glancing flirtatiously back at him a few times, before she disappeared behind a corner. 

The Captain went on his way and, once he reached the end of the square, he paused, looking around. There were a few new watering holes, nothing fancy yet, except for the Runaway Lass, which had a shiny doormat at the first step leading to the entrance, and nicely potted plants in the windows. It was also very quiet, and Jack quickly decided that  _ boring _ was off the table for that evening. 

Another establishment that caught his eye was more cozy, familiar sounds of drunken shouting trickling through a crack in an ill-fitted door. There was some sort of a commotion inside, however, and, just as he decided to investigate it further, two bulky men emerged, carrying a rather sloshed fellow between them. They dumped him on the ground, the mud splashing wetly all over them, and directed their gaze towards Jack, eyes stormy. The Captain knew well what bloodlust looked like, so he grinned, doffed his hat and saluted them with it. Apart from another angry glare, it didn’t make much of a difference, and Jack walked away slowly, the way one would when avoiding a rabid dog. After all, he had a mind to play some cards and woo a saucy wench, not have his teeth knocked down his throat. 

Directing his steps into one of the alleys, Jack sauntered on until he encountered a rather glaring sign depicting a widely smiling donkey. He  _ recognized _ that donkey, but seeing it in a place he had least expected it to be was a bit surprising - while people traveled far and wide,  _ taverns _ tended to stay in one place. 

With a grin, Jack pushed the doors open, then slipped inside, his eyes scanning the crowd gathered there. Mostly sailors -  _ pirates  _ \- and a couple of working men.  _ Nothing changed then, _ he thought, except for the fact that the last time he had been in  _ The Crazy Donkey, _ it had been a spithole in a backalley of a small port on La Catalana. Now, there was a lot more space, which allowed for the gathered men to spread out a little, sprawling to claim as much space as they could for the night, their legs splayed carelessly, creating a right trap for the working girls who tripped over them constantly. Jack didn’t really recognize any of them, although one or two faces looked vaguely familiar, so he made a beeline for the bar. 

A man who had been probably drinking since the tavern had opened on that day, purple in the face and dreamy in the eyes, vacated one seat conveniently when he fell on his face, and Jack took it quickly, glancing at the bloke.    
“Thanks, mate,” he muttered, raising an eyebrow when the human-shaped lump on the floor mumbled something into the wood, one hand moving feebly in an approximation of a wave. He didn’t look too comfortable lying there, but he was in no imminent danger, and so Jack decided to let him be, turning his head back to the bar when he noticed a movement behind him. 

“What can I get ye?” A melodic voice sounded, and Jack froze, blinking stupidly. This face he knew. This face he knew  _ very  _ well.    
“Cordelia!” He greeted, a genuine smile stretching his lips. She grinned, her eyes twinkling, then grabbed a bottle from the shelf behind her. A moment later, a mug full of rum slid across the bartop, and Jack grabbed it gratefully. “Thank ye, darlin’”    
“What are ye doin’ here, Jack?” She asked, leaning forward, her low-cut dress displaying her perfect cleavage. Jack let his eyes stray lower, well aware that Cordelia wouldn’t mind.    
“Havin’ a date with Lady Luck,” he replied, tilting his head at a nearby table where a game of cards was ongoing. “But what’re ye doin’ here, luv? Last time I’ve seen ye, the  _ Donkey _ was in La Catalana!” 

To that, she laughed merrily, throwing her head back and showing him her perfect teeth.    
“Remember that old sack who ran it?” She asked, tilting her head to the side flirtatiously, and Jack frowned, racking his brain for the man in question.    
“Ted?” He recalled. “Old Grimy Ted?”    
“The very same!” She confirmed, and the Captain hummed.    
“What ‘appened to ‘im? Did he drink ‘imself into t’ grave finally?”    
“Yeah… but not before he married me,” she declared, showing Jack the ring she still wore, wriggling her fingers at him. While the gold was pretty, Jack was more interested in the things she was able to do with those skilled hands, and he let himself be momentarily distracted, remembering a few very pleasant nights spent half a Caribbean away. 

“So ye took his money-”   
“And the sign.”   
“...and made a livin’ fer yerself?” Jack raised his eyebrows, then nodded thoughtfully. “Smart. Congratulations, darlin’!” He saluted her with rum and took a few long gulps. She watched him with amusement, her eyes sparkling, and he could feel a rather excited twinge somewhere in his gut. He gave her a very appreciative stare, his gaze slipping over her face and down her neck, until it got stuck in the cleavage between her breasts. She giggled, pushing her chest out, rendering him slightly speechless and definitely too hot. This only brought on another laughter from her.    
“You don’t change, Jack,” she declared with amusement, and when he answered with a gold-filled grin, she leaned over the bar and gave him a soft kiss. 

Now, Jack Sparrow was not a man to scoff at a kiss, no matter how small or insignificant it was. He loved kisses - the little ones, the big ones, with tongue or without. They were all just  _ lovely, _ always filled with positive emotions, and usually led to some very promising happenings, not necessarily involving mouths - although, he adored those even more. 

This brief peck, however, was nowhere near what he needed after his too close brush with death, and he couldn’t hide his disappointment when Cordelia pulled back quickly -  _ too quickly  _ \- and threw him a mysterious look.    
“I don’t think I could lure ye into me bed like in t’ old times, eh?” Jack tried, winking, and she shook her head, glancing at the tavern.    
“I’ve gotta business t’ run, Jack,” she explained, her expression a bit sad, but she didn’t seem overly disappointed. “I’m sure, though, tha’ one of my girls will be more ‘n’ happy t’ earn some coin.” Having said that, she tilted her head to the side, indicating a pretty blonde collecting empty tankards from the tables. She was wearing a blue, low-cut dress and had her hair done up, and Jack could certainly see the appeal of her jade-green eyes. She sent him a coquettish smirk and went on her way, her hips swaying. 

Jack watched her go, leaning to the side to keep his eyes on her form disappearing behind the corner, until he was forced to put one foot out not to lose his balance and fall off the barstool. Cordelia laughed again, shaking her head.    
“So… cards?” She asked after a moment, and Jack nodded.    
“Aye… need me some gold, lass,” he confirmed, eyeing the players - all middle-aged, all overly sure of themselves, and all completely unaware that the deck they were using was marked. Jack could see it even from afar, and he decided that a few quick hands could bring him some good booty.    
“Watch t’ moustache one,” she said, leaning in, and Jack’s gaze went to the bloke discreetly. “He’s better ‘n’ he lets on. Oh, an’ before ye go an’ lose all yer hard-earn’d treasure, I got somethin’ for ye…” And she walked away, ducking into a small doorway with a “watch t’ bar” thrown over her shoulder. Jack scowled at his mug.    
“I don’t  _ lose,” _ he muttered, taking a swig. 

Cordelia was back as quickly as she had disappeared, a scrap of linen in her grasp. She handed it to Jack, who unrolled it with a frown. It took him a moment to recognize what he saw, but once it sank into his brain, he jerked his head up in surprise.    
“How did ye find it?”    
“It’s what ye’ve been after in La Catalana, isn’t it?” She asked, and the Captain nodded, astonished. “Well, my dearly beloved  _ late _ husband had this ornate little box… ‘t would be a shame t’ let it go to waste after his death.”    
“Yer an angel, dalrin’,” Jack said, beaming, and pocketed the gift, filing it away for later. It would prove useful yet, if they made it through Iceland.   
“Good luck, Captain,” she murmured, leaning in and bestowing another kiss on his mouth, this one more lingering. 

Half drunk already, Jack let her go after a moment, reluctantly busying himself with rum, waiting for the opportunity to join the game. It came half an hour later, when one of the patrons stumbled away, muttering furiously under his nose. Jack grinned, teeth flashing gold, and took his place, pushing a few coins across the table to add them to the pot. The other players glanced at him, shrugged, and dealt him in. 

It took him two hands to work out every possible trick he could use while still following the rules. They were simple enough - collect what you needed, discard what you didn’t, put the melds down on the table before anyone else had a chance to do so. It reminded him of a game he had played while in Singapore, which, as he had been told, had originated from China.  _ Good men, the Chinese, always coming up with new entertainment, _ Jack thought, eyeing his cards. 

-&-

As far as games went, this one was a piece of cake. Jack won three hands in a row, then let the others have some fun, losing purposefully to throw them off. The stakes weren’t high yet, but they were raising steadily, and he was very optimistic about the outcome. Especially when, in addition to another bottle of rum he had ordered, a girl appeared, flirting shamelessly as she handed him the bottle. It was the pretty blonde from before, and she didn’t even fake a smidgen of protest when he pulled her into his lap - she giggled merrily, making herself comfortable, while he played his cards with his arm around her. 

For a time, because the moustache bloke was getting seriously winded up about his bad luck with three sets he had attempted to collect, Jack had to concentrate harder on picking his cards. The lass -  _ Florence, _ she had told him - seemed to be content to busy herself with his hair for the time being, twisting in his lap and pushing her hands into it. He had decided it would do to leave his hair tied up for a time, a small but welcome change from his usual, more piratical looks. Florence liked it well enough, too - he could feel her nails scratching delicately over his scalp when she ran her fingers between the dreadlocks, and he shivered pleasantly, shifting a bit in his seat. All of her wriggling had a rather  _ awakening _ effect on him, which hadn’t gone unnoticed by his companions, and Jack smiled lazily at them over the cards he was holding, placing them face-up on the table and winning yet another round. The Moustache sent him a death glare and stood angrily, stalking off to the bar to get a refill of whatever swivel he had been slurping on, and Jack used the momentary break to turn to the side and steal a kiss. 

Florence laughed into his mouth, then hummed in delight when he let his tongue into play. It didn’t take long to have her worked out as well, and Jack used all his skills to have her panting and squirming, his arms tightening around her supple form, easily noticeable through the surprisingly thin dress she was wearing.   
“So beautiful, darlin’,” he whispered between kisses, beaming when she blushed, then decided that a bit of worldliness wouldn’t go amiss. “T’es trop charmante,” he murmured, trailing kisses in a smooth line, all the way to her ear. “Vous venez souvent ici?” To that, she giggled like a little girl and threw her head back, giving Jack a perfect opportunity to feast upon her neck, which he obviously did - who  _ wouldn’t? _

His major opponent was back soon, though, and he reluctantly drew away, focusing on the game once more. The pile of coins that was currently shining on the table was enticing enough under normal circumstances, but now, when he had a wench in his lap, laughing happily every time he managed to surprise the other men, winning became something of a priority mission for him. If he played it right, the bird occupying herself with the beads right above his left ear would undoubtedly be delighted to spend the night with him. Grinning, Jack collected his freshly dealt cards. 

-&-

Almost an hour - and a lot of squirming - later, Jack had finally managed to lay out the Moustache. The man stomped away, positively fuming, and Jack had the wherewithal not to leer too much, in case he turned around and decided to teach Captain Sparrow a lesson about all the ways a man could lose ungracefully. It had been the last of the players, too, and so, Jack leaned over to collect his prize, inadvertently sandwiching Florence between his chest and the table. She gave a displeased little huff at that,  _ the witch, _ and he flashed her his gold teeth as he picked a shiny Spanish dollar, before he presented it to her.    
“J’ai une première édition de  _ Le Micromégas... _ Tu veux la voir?” He murmured sweetly, and she leaned in for a kiss, the coin disappearing from his fingers and into her dress. Soon enough, he had a rather amorous girl on his hands, dragging him to one of the rooms in the inn above the tavern. She had been so persistent that he had barely had enough time to collect the rest of the booty. 

It hardly mattered, though, for she backed him into the nearest wall in the corridor, leading up to the staircase. And then again, on the top landing. And again, right outside a room he struggled to open with only one hand and half of a working brain. As soon as it gave, though, Florence pushed him inside, kissing him so sweetly his toes curled inside his boots, before she excused herself and went out. She murmured something about a bath, or a drink… possibly  _ both, _ but Jack was too preoccupied with trying to remain upright to notice. 

_ Pretty things had always had a knee-softening effect on him.  _

She was back quickly enough not to leave him any time to even try to ransack the room, and he couldn’t complain about that, seeing as she was immediately concerned with divesting him of his coat and shirt. While the former didn’t cause her any trouble, Florence had to concede the latter, going instead for the sash he was wearing. Hooking her fingers behind it, she started tugging - a strategy which proved to be incredibly witty, for it was Jack who took over quickly, and she could shamelessly attach herself to his lips. Her hands, free now since he was doing all the work, roamed over his chest, dipping under the soft cotton of his shirt, straying down hastily and wandering all the way below his waist. 

Jack swore and attempted to unwind the sash faster, which was not an easy thing to do with the length of the material wrapped about his hips. Thankfully, after a bit of strategic loosening, it fell down around his feet, and Florence went on with a cheeky grin, divesting him of the rest of his clothing, while simultaneously backing him to the bed. He landed on his back with a delicate push of her hand, and she climbed after, eyes glued to his chest, gaze jumping over the many tattoos. She ran a finger over one of them, a celtic sun he had acquired while on a visit in London, and Jack used the momentary pause to run his hands up her stockinged legs, slipping under her dress. She gasped, straddling him, then let her fingers stray to his newest scar, all pink and tender. There was a question in her eyes, and Jack shrugged nonchalantly.    
“Just a scratch, luv,” he murmured, leaning up for a kiss.    
“You’ve been shot?” She asked, her voice soft. She sounded genuinely concerned, and Jack hummed distractedly.    
“Nothin’ serious… just a couple o’ landlubbers thinkin’ they could best Captain Jack Sparrow,” he tried. She pouted rather charmingly at that. “Barely felt that, darlin’.” 

He twisted a bit to the side, showing her another scar - a long, thin line across his ribs.   
“This one, on t’ other hand,” he said, and she bent down to examine it properly, running her fingers tenderly over his flesh, making him shiver. A certain part of him was slowly getting very impatient, indeed.    
“A sword?”    
“A  _ scimitar,” _ he corrected. “There was a very wealthy king in India, an’ he was one day attacked by a grungy band o’ rascals, who wanted t’ rob him of all his precious jewels. I couldn’t let tha’ happen, so I came to his aid immediately. Fighting off five of ‘em at t’ same time was no child’s play, of course, especially with tha’ tiger comin’ closer to us…” he added, pausing just for a bit of a dramatic effect. She gasped, shocked.    
“Oh no!”    
“Not to worry, luv, good ol’ Jack knows  _ exactly _ how to handle his weapon,” he said, smiling widely, gold teeth flickering in the meager light from one of the lamps. She giggled, then moved lower, along his legs, one hand coming to rest on his thigh. 

He had another mark there, a jagged half-circle, faded to milky white over time. She frowned, splaying her fingers over it, squeezing slightly, making his hips strain up with the sensation of her hand  _ right there.  _   
“And this?”    
“Ah!” He groaned, tugging her up. He kissed her hungrily and rolled them over, pressing her into the lumpy mattress.   
“Lemme tell ye about the shark near the sunken treasure!” 

She giggled in delight, both legs wrapping around his waist, and Jack dedicated the next few moments to tearing her clothes away from her, before he proceeded with quite a thorough retelling of a very adventurous story, demonstrating it with hands and mouth alike. She must have liked it, because she shared one of her own, and it involved horses and  _ riding, _ and Jack had never been so pleased to admit that he had lost some kind of a storytelling competition - not when it resulted in the retelling of another of her adventures, something about algae-eaters and wicked kittens. 

-&-

As far as shopping went, it was not a notion easily entertained by pirates - why pay for something one can steal for free? The Captain had ordered them to use the gold from the pouch, however, and if there was one thing Jack’s crew was good at doing, it was following his orders… to the best of their - frankly limited - ability. 

“Look.” Pintel elbowed Ragetti, nodding his head at their Captain, watching as the man weaved his way through the late afternoon crowd streaming in and out of the market. As they stared, Jack sauntered to one of the tables, talked for a bit with the owner, then proceeded to buy…  _ a snake? _

“D’ye think somethin’s wrong with ‘im?” Ragetti asked, rubbing his wooden eye. It was entirely possible that their Captain was still under the influence of whatever the villagers had done to him, after all.   
“Aye.” Pintel nodded solemnly. “He be _possessed!”_   
“Possessed?” His companion jumped in place, looking at him from the corner of his good eye. “By what?”   
“Devil goats, I tell ye,” the shorter man said, frowning when they lost Jack from their sight as the crowd moved in between them. He appeared a monet later, at a completely different stall, browsing through various rings and pendants. _The snake was probably already tucked away nicely in his pocket,_ Pintel mused silently. 

He turned to the rest of his group, Ragetti and Marty watching him with their eyebrows raised. Scrum was just standing to the side, eyes fixed on their provisions list, and Pintel’s brain worked hard at drafting up a plan.    
“Scrum,” he said, trying to appear casual. The pirate in question jerked his head up, finally tearing his gaze away from the parchment in his hand.    
“Yea?”   
“Say… ye wouldn’t mind takin’ care of t’ shoppin’ now, would ye?” He asked, to which Scrum frowned.   
“We were tasked with it, of course I wouldn’t mind…”   
“Great!” Pintel beamed at him, showing his shark-like teeth. He clapped the man on his shoulder for good measure, then turned to Marty. “Oi, he needs ye too, ye can read!” 

Marty just stood there, squinting, and Pintel sighed, one hand diving into his own pocket, retrieving a few coins.    
“See… We have a bit of a business t’ take care off…” He glanced at Ragetti, who blinked stupidly at him, before he caught on.    
“Aye! A very serious, very  _ dangerous  _ business…”   
“Yea… and we wouldn’t want ye to get hurt…”   
“There be  _ devil goats, _ after all…”   
“Aye,” Pintel nodded, handing Scrum and Marty the coins.    
“What business?” Another voice asked, and they all turned to see Harper standing there, one hand playing with a trinket in his hair. He was looking more and more like Jack, a thing that was as fascinating as it was unsettling.    
“Nevermind, yer comin’ with us,” the shorter buccaneer grabbed the lad by his lapels and hauled him off into the crowd, Ragetti following them closely. 

-&-

It was only the next morning that they found themselves back aboard the Pearl, looking down when Gibbs glared at them imploringly.    
“Where be Jack? And what the devil happened to ye?” The Quartermaster asked, his gaze pausing on Ragetti’s wooden eye, now adorned with a…  _ was that a hairpin?  _ Gibbs sighed, deflating a little, and Pintel took the momentary break as his cue to start explaining things.   
“Ye see… we thought t’ Capt’n be possessed…”   
“Possessed?” Gibbs’ expression turned vacant. Then, “why on t’ God’s green earth would ye think that?” 

Pintel and Ragetti looked at each other, silently deciding whether they should just outright voice their concerns, while Harper simply stood there, staring at nothing that just happened to be in the vicinity of his Quartermaster’s feet, his blond, trinketed hair swaying softly with the breeze. There was a new bead there, Gibbs noted absentmindedly, then focused on the two main culprits, as Ragetti made an attempt at explanation.    
“Ever since we got back from the Wildlands…”   
“T’ Capt’n be acting…”   
“...funny.” 

The Quartermaster blinked at them stupidly, which evidently was a prompt for them to continue. This time, it was Pintel who sketched the story out.    
“Well… he talks to ‘imself…  _ a lot.” _   
“Aye,” his faithful companion added. “And t’ the ship, too.”   
“And he walks funny! And ‘is hair looks even  _ weirder _ now…”    
“So we went after him,” Ragetti said, waving his hands in the air. “Quiet as mice, promise.”    
“We saw ‘im on t’ market buyin’ a snake.”    
“A snake?” Gibbs eyed them warily.    
“Aye! But ‘e put it into ‘is pocket an’ it disappeared.”    
“Yea, and then there was that girl in the window tha’ shut it so hard the panes rattled.”   
“An’ the one with t’ apples! She  _ ran away!”  _   
“Aye! And then he went to t’ tavern and cheated at cards wit’ a wench on ‘is knee an’...”

Gibbs’s eyes jumped from one to another, his eyebrows rising so high they were in serious danger of disappearing at the other side of his head. When they were finally done, a bit out of breath and looking at him with fear in their gazes, he finally let his confusion show.    
“And  _ what _ exactly is so unusual ‘bout all of that?” He asked, and an awkward silence followed. “I’d be worried if the C’ptain acted….  _ normal, _ to be honest with ye,” he added, and the three nodded in agreement, feeling a bit foolish. They should have known better, but it was no use crying over spilt milk… or a broken eye. Gibbs shook his head in resignation. 

“D’ye know where Jack be now?” He ventured, to which they hesitated. The Quartermaster wasn’t sure whether they had already forgotten the way to whichever hole Jack had deemed a worthy den of pleasure, or if they were simply paralyzed with fear over  _ devil goats _ once more. Thankfully, Harper chose this very moment to pipe in. Bless the lad.    
“The Crazy Donkey, boss,” he said, still looking down. Gibbs nodded in thanks.    
“Alright, boys. I’ll go and get ‘im, you stay ‘ere…” He cast a meaningful glance at the hairpin still stuck firmly in Ragetti’s eye, shifting with every twitch of the eyeball. “Go see Jonesie ‘bout that.” 

-&-

In the little room above the tavern, a certain pirate Captain had let himself be lured into a hot bath. A few charming smiles from Florence helped, and, while he wasn’t overly fond of sweet-smelling soap and bathtubs, preferring the salt of the ocean to scrubbing himself clean with a sponge - he could definitely see some merit in his current situation. 

“And this one?” The girl asked, running a hand over his collarbone and the tattoo he had there, a single line of text he had done sometime during his last stay in Florida. The writing was neat, the language was French, the phrase twisted and turned, reflecting his own life. Jack didn’t feel like explaining it all to her, so instead, when she leaned over the tub in which he was seated, intent on pouring water over his chest, he sneaked one arm around her and pulled her closer. It made her fall inside with a splash, and Jack grinned mischievously when she squeaked, then laughed wholeheartedly. 

She was dressed only in a thin shift, completely see-through when soaking wet, and the Captain let his hands skim over those slim hips, wetting the material thoroughly. They had ended up doing some rather steamy activities  that night , so when she had proposed a bath that she had promptly organized  in the morning , Jack hadn’t even been able to protest. Especially not when it seemed that she enjoyed staring at his tattoos as much as he loved to observe her. She was quick to smile, even quicker to giggle, and her eyes glimmered mysteriously when she applied yet another dirty trick from her repertoire, rendering him speechless in five seconds flat. 

“Jaaaack,” she whined, but there was no real petulance in her voice, and he frowned minutely at her, fingers busy tugging the shift up and out of the way. He didn’t understand the point of putting it on in the first place, anyway - such beautiful creatures should be allowed to walk around  _ au naturel,  _ after all, and  _ damn _ the propriety!   
“Yes darlin’?” He inquired, inhaling sharply when her shapely bottom wriggled in his lap.    
“Look at the mess you’ve made!” Florence accused, no doubt referring to the water that had splashed out of the tub and onto the wooden floor. Jack raised one eyebrow at her.    
“I’ve made quite a mess before that, an’ ye didn’t seem to mind,” he reminded her, leaning in for a kiss. She laughed again, twisting around until she could straddle him, and the Captain rewarded her agility with one hand disappearing under the surface, diving between her legs. It was no small feat, after all, to squeeze her legs around his hips in the confined space they occupied, and such an accomplishment deserved a treat. She let out a small moan, arching her back, then shifted a bit, looking for the right angle. 

The next half an hour went in a blur, and Jack’s brain became halfway functional again only when she was drying him all the way back in the bed, before she settled herself at his side.  _ Nothing like a nice, warm cuddle to  _ _ start off the day _ _ , _ the Captain thought, stretching lazily like a satisfied cat. Completely satisfied, with one arm around Florence’s back and the other drawing absurd patterns on her high-hitched knee, he let himself drift off into sleep.

-&\- 

Jack didn’t remember ever leaving the tavern and returning to the Black Pearl, or drinking so much rum that forgetting it would have been justifiable for that matter, so waking up in his own cabin, in his own cot, the beautiful wench nowhere to be seen -  _ What was ‘er name again? _ \- was more than a little confusing. At first. Upon stepping onto the main deck, he quickly realized more things were amiss - no crew, no wind, no smell of the warm seabreeze, the eerie quiet… Aye, he’d had enough of these in the last few weeks to know what was up-

“Yer quick to seek bodily pleasures, having just come back to t’ land of t’ living, Captain Sparrow,” a heavily-accented, female voice sounded from behind him, dispelling all doubts he still might have had.  _ A bloody dream _ , Jack concluded, scrunching his nose in dismay, before spinning around on his heel to face her, a forced grin set firmly in place.    
“Calypso! To what do I owe the pleasure of ye invading me brain,  _ again?” _   
She ignored the evident insincerity in his voice. “Just making sure ye remember yer mission, Jack.”   
He, in turn, ignored the subtle menace carried in her tone. “Aye, I remember. Ye can go now.” The shooing gesture he had added for emphasis didn’t work on her, sadly. It never did. 

“Yet, ye seem a bit...  _ distracted,” _ Calypso replied, closing the distance between them so that their noses were almost touching. She had that odd, seductive smile she would always reserve for him, knowing that the pirate wasn’t as easily intimidated by her as, for instance, William Turner was. Besides, she couldn’t help but feel a special kind of fondness of the unruly Captain, no matter how infuriating he was at times.   
“I believe I deserve some  _ bodily pleasures  _ after what I’ve been through, eh?” Jack flailed his hands around, index finger tugging at the opening of his shirt, revealing the fresh scar on his collarbone.   
“Don’t get shot next time,” she shrugged, seemingly unimpressed. The goddess had kept a watchful eye on him all along, but he didn’t have to know that. “And stay focused on-”   
“The mission, aye, the bloody stupid mission,” he cut her off, irritated, petulant like a child who had been told not to play with his favorite toy.    
“‘Tis no time to be wooing stray wenches,” she insisted, more amused than annoyed by his reaction, though her patience had her limits and Jack would be wise not to test them. 

_ He was not a wise man, apparently.  _

“Yer not jealous, are ye?” Jack beamed at her, a glint of mischief lighting up his eyes. It never ceased to amaze her how easily he could switch from one emotion to another, unpredictable and moody like the briny deep - like  _ herself. _ She rolled her eyes, crossing her arms over her chest defensively.    
“Please, don’t flatter yerself. Yer a mere  _ mortal _ , unworthy of me divinity.” Her voice was laced with pride and condescension, absolutely convinced that  _ the night  _ they had once shared didn’t really count since she had been bound to a human form at the time. It had been a long time ago, anyway. 

“The lady doth protest too much, methinks," he teased in response, turning away from her dismissively, satisfied that he managed to ruffle her feathers somewhat. He liked doing that to people, as a matter of principle, and self-important gods were not exempted from a little rib-jabbing.

Sauntering happily towards his cabin, Jack figured he would try to fall asleep again in order to _ wake up  _ \- hopefully next to his giggling lass. He waved Calypso goodbye over his shoulder, but the rumbling sound of thunder in the distance made him stop and rethink his next move. The sky instantly became dark as thick clouds appeared over the ship, a chilling gust of air sweeping over the deck. Alright, so he might have made her a little upset...

All of a sudden, Calypso materialized before him, her gaze cold and intense, just like the wind that she had conjured to accentuate her sour disposition.    
“Ye think it wise to summon The Brethren Court?”    
_ Definitely upset,  _ Jack concluded, but decided to keep up the veneer of nonchalance anyway.   
“Not too happy ‘bout it myself, luv, but seeing as Barnacle, or whatever ‘is name is, has the Spear  _ and _ a whole fleet at his disposal, we’ll need all the help we can get, savvy?”   
“I don’t trust them,” she all but pouted, the betrayal committed by the Pirate Council still fresh in her memory, even though several decades had passed since then.    
“Neither do I,” Jack admitted, the stormy weather making the beads and trinkets in his hair jangle with every sway, “but I firmly believe in self-interest being the driving force behind every alliance known to men, and there is no doubt that stopping... Barnaby  _ is _ in everyone’s best interest.”

She didn’t look convinced, but she also couldn’t deny the fact that even with the aid of the Flying Dutchman, Jack Sparrow was outnumbered. Holding his gaze a while longer, she decided to let the heavy rain express her displeasure.    
“Don’t be like that, luv,” Jack whined, eyes squinting against the downpour. He hated being wet, even in a dream -  _ especially _ in a dream.    
“Safe travels, Captain,” she replied curtly, then, in the blink of an eye, disintegrated into dozens of little crabs that slithered across the deck and fell into the ocean. 

Jack felt the ship wobble, then sway abruptly to one side, and he had to grab the rail to keep his balance. The port got pushed up by the waves while the starboard dipped low, a powerful current pulling the Pearl downwards. One glance at the turbulent waters confirmed Jack’s fears - his vessel was right on the edge of an enormous whirlpool, about to be capsized and swallowed whole. He made a mental note  _ not to _ tease self-important gods for future reference, before he lost his grip on the rail and started falling into the vortex of the maelstrom. His hand shot up in a desperate attempt to snatch a rope from the ship's rigging, but he only managed to brush it with his knuckles, making it yelp in pain-

_ Ouch! _

Jack opened his eyes and, after blinking the confusion away, he saw his Quartermaster leaning over him, the lovely wench giggling in the background. Gibbs winced, rubbing his sore jaw, a look of displeasure on his face.    
“I wish ye took off yer rings before bed,” he muttered with a sigh, “this be getting old C’ptain.”   
Jack squinted at him, then glanced at the girl, and eventually took in the rumpled sheets he was wrapped in, awareness returning with full force. An innocent grin and a slight shrug was the closest thing to an apology Gibbs was going to get, but he didn’t even mind, having danced this dance numerous times before.

“My effects, if ye pl-” Jack started, but the older pirate had already handed him his belongings, or rather, had thrown a bundle of his clothes  _ at _ him, hitting him square in the face. To be fair, he couldn’t complain about it - their regular wake-me-up-when-I’m-half-dead routine usually involved a bucket full of ice-cold water, and he really didn’t feel like getting wet,  _ again. _

Gibbs waited patiently for Jack to get dressed, then the two bid the lass farewell. Florence winked at the Captain as he passed her by, and he reciprocated by giving her a quick peck on the cheek, happy that one satisfied wench would spread the word about her unforgettable night with the legendary Jack Sparrow - a gentleman and a wicked lover all at once.    
“Goodbye, my sweet…” he paused, blinking twice, his mind drawing a momentary blank, and her blissed-out features turned to annoyance in a flash.    
“What’s my name?” She challenged, putting her hands on her hips, eyes boring holes in Jack’s skull. He opened his mouth and closed it swiftly, unable to recall even the first letter. 

_ It had something to do with... a city - Paris, maybe? Venice! Nah, that’s just silly. _

Gibbs was already halfway down the stairs when he heard a loud smack followed by the door being shut with a bang, and he smirked to himself knowingly. Jack caught up to him quickly, seemingly unfazed, but there was a bit more urgency in his stride than necessary. The older man decided not to comment on what had just transpired - it was part of their routine as well.   
“Ye don’t happen to ‘ave-” Jack began to ask, gesturing vaguely around his lips, and the Quartermaster wordlessly handed him a leather flask. He snatched it eagerly before taking a large swig of his favourite liquor, his good mood returning quickly.    
“T’ crew ready?”   
“Aye, just waitin’ fer their C’ptain.”   
“Good.”

“Jack?” Gibbs began, then hesitated for a moment before gathering the nerve to ask something that had been on his mind - a little seed of doubt that, admittedly, had been planted there by two cretins and a child. “Ye’d tell me if ye be possessed, right?”   
“Wha’?” Jack frowned, looking at his friend as if he had sprouted a second head.    
“Nevermind.” 

Upon entering the tavern’s main area, the Quartermaster was a bit surprised to see their helmsman, Mr. Cole, slouched over the bar, engrossed in scribbling something on a piece of paper - probably a pitiful love letter to his bonny lass. He scoffed at the sight, ready to give him a severe tongue-lashing for leaving his post, but thought better of it since their Captain wasn’t setting a great example himself. In fact, Jack didn’t even notice the man as he strutted towards the door without a care in the world, more interested in the contents of the flask he had been given. Gibbs let out a heavy sigh, shaking his head in exasperation.    
“Nick, ye lily-livered scallywag!” He called out in a gruff tone, making Cole jump in his seat, “ye better get yer arse to t’ ship  _ now, _ or ye be scrubbin’ t’ deck with it all t’ way to Iceland!”    
“A-aye aye sir!” Cole responded, completely flabbergasted, not expecting to see both of his bosses in an obscure establishment like  _ The Crazy Donkey, _ especially at such an early hour.   
Gibbs gave him the stink eye before following Jack outside, cursing under his breath on his way out. 

Cole watched them leave, and once he was sure they were out of earshot, he turned to the old, pipe-smoking sailor that had been occupying the seat next to his. The two had shared a few pints earlier, and the Pearl’s helmsman had found out that the old salt was on his way to Jamaica, willing to deliver a message for him - with the right incentive, of course.   
“Remember,  _ The Sunshine  _ at Port Royal, yeah?” He said nervously, pushing the piece of paper into the man’s hands, then slipped him a silver coin to make sure he would keep his end of the bargain.   
The sailor nodded, hiding the letter and the payment in his back pocket wordlessly, but as soon as Cole left the tavern, his curiosity won over and he pulled out the missive to skim through it. 

The letter made little sense to the tobacco-smoking man, and he folded it in half before pocketing it once more. He did have an inkling as to what kind of a man Mr. Cole was - a wolf in sheep’s clothing, no doubt - but the silver coin he had received for his troubles placated his conscience sufficiently. 


End file.
